I 


THE  LIBRARY 


THE  UNIVERSITY 


OF  CAL IFORNIA 


LOS  ANGELES 


\v 


BUDS  AND  FLOWERS, 


OF 


LEISURE    HOURS- 


An   unpretending  chaplet,   wove 

Of  Patriotism's   flowers, 
With  tendrils   from   the   vines  of  Love, 

And  leaves  from  Friendship's  bowers. 


BY     HARRY     H  AWS  ER, 

Sailor,  <fa. 


PHILADELPHIA: 


PRINTED  AX  It  PUBLISHED,  FOB  THE  AUTHOR.  HV  fVEO.   W.  LOAMMt   JOHNSON. 


1844. 


aa  u OH  a 


Entered  according  lo  the  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1843,  in  the  Clerk'a  Office,  of  the  District 
Court  of  the  Eastern  District  of  Pennsylvania. 

vfifil   h«A 


,  fl  3  a  W  A  H     YfiflAH     Y8 


2To  tlje  J^onovablc 

RICHARD    VAUX. 

SIR: — 

I  beg  leave  to  dedicate  to  you  the  following  humble  effusions 
of  my  pen,  the  result  of  leisure  hours,  in  a  situation  which  your 
kindness  tended  to  transform  into  a  seat  on  the  banks  of  Repent 
ance. 

I  am  sincerely  grateful  for  the  many  unequivocal  marks  of  your 
kind  feeling  towards  me,  while  shut  out  for  a  time  from  all  allied  to 
me  by  the  ties  of  consanguinity,  and  it  shall  be  my  ambition  to 
prove  that  your  favours  were  not  lavished  upon  a  thankless  or  unim 
proved  unfortunate. 

Should  these  "  BUDS  AND  FLOWERS"  afford  you  any  gratification, 
my  highest  wishes  will  have  been  realized.     They  are  offered  as  the 
only  evidence  now  in  my  power,  to  indicate  that  your  benevolence 
and  counsel  have  neither  been  misplaced  nor  disregarded.  ' 
I  have  the  honour  to  be, 

With  true  respect, 

Yours,  «fec.,  &c., 

HARRY  HAWSER. 
Philadelphia,  July  25,  1843. 


Page  10. — First  line  in  "A  Mother's  Love,"  insert  (how)  how  vile. 

"  14. — Second  line — read  caves  for  waves. 

"  15. — Second    "  of  bottom  verse,  read  wavy  for  wary. 

"  18. — Third     "  of  last  verse,  for  wave  read  cave. 

"  21. — Fourth    "  of  second  verse,  read  impearlcd. 

"  23. — Fourth    "   for  a  period,  place  a  comma. 

"  26. — Fifth       "   of  last  verse,  for  brows  read  hearts. 

"  28.— Third     "  of  third  verse  of  "  A  Pastoral,"  for  glassy,  read  glossy. 

,  "  31. — Twenty-third  line,  place  a  semicolon.  i 

"  38. — Third  stanza,  fourth  line,  for  was  read  were.  .,    ^  ^ 

"  39 — First  line,  for  thoughtless  read  thoughtful. 

"  41. — Fourth   "    for  pride,  read  tide. 

«  49. — Fifth      "    of  third  verse  read  loved. 

"  50. — Fourth   "   for  wing'd,  read  winged. 

"  53. — Second    "  of  third  verse,  for  passions,  read  passion. 

"  56. — Last  line,  insert  the  word  all,  all  the  tinselry. 

*"  64. — Sixth      "  of  top  verse,  for  dream,  read  beam. 

"  70. — Third     "  of  lower  stanza,  for  and,  read  when. 

"  72. — Third     "   from  top,  for  mayhaps,  read  mayhap.      '.''' 

"  80. — Second  "  "  Sparkling  Bowl,"  for  bearded,  read  beaded. 

"  86. — First      "   third  verse  "  Isabel  May,"  for  cupids,  read  cupid. 

"  " — Second"  last        "      for  naiads,  read  naiade. 

"  108. — Thirteenth  line  for  Brifon's,  read  Britain's. 

"  113. — Fourth  "    from  bottom,  for  glows,  read  flows. 

«  «     — Eleventh  line  from     "     for  antedaling,  read  antedating. 

"  114. — Ninth    line   from      "    for  borrowed,  read  borrowed. 


2P  IB  H  H3  A  0 


THE  author  of  the  following  pages,  during  a  period  of  involuntary  seclu 
sion  from  society,  devoted  his  leisure  hours  to  reading  and  reflection,  and  the 
while,  he  composed  these  fugitive  pieces,  now  offered  to  the  reader.  They 
were  written  at  intervals,  during  three  years,  the  term  of  his  imprisonment. 
Born  of  respectable  parents,  he,  in  early  years,  became  imbued  with  the  love 
of  roaming,  which  so  controlled  his  disposition,  that  when  young  he  left  his 
father's  roof,  and  passed  the  larger -portion  of  his  time  at  sea,  and  in  foreign 
climes.  Intemperance  consigned  him  to  a  prison.  Justice  to  a  system  of 
prison  discipline,  which  has  received  the  severe  and  unjust  criticism  of  many 
intelligent  persons,  has  induced  him  to  lay  before  the  public  the  results  of  its 
operation  upon  himself,  as  the  best  and  most  indisputable  refutation  of  the 
condemnation  it  has  received. 

When  first  left  to  his  own  meditations,  the  scenes  of  childhood,  and  the 
adventures  of  youth  were  the  constant  subjects  of  his  thought ; — next  follow 
ed  the  remembrance  of  the  attempts  to  impart  instruction  and  good  counsel 
by  his  parents,  and  these,  united,  were  the  sources  of  vitality  of  "  BUDS  AITD 
FLOWERS  OF  LEISURE  HOURS." 

He  regards  his  confinement  at  Cherry  Hill_*  the  happiest  event  of  his  life. 
It  has  dissolved  improper  connections,  remodelled  his  tastes,  improved  his 
mind,  and,  he  trusts,  made  better  his  heart.  He  is  neither  morose,  imbecile, 
dispirited,  or  deranged,  and  whatever  reformation  his  imprisonment  may  have 
produced,  he  can  attribute  it  to  the  separate  seclusion  from  evil  example  and 
worse  precept,  which  must  necessarily  follow  the  indiscriminate  congregation 
of  offenders,  in  a  place  of  punishment. 

This  volume  was  never  designed  for  the  public  eye,  but  since  his  return 
into  society,  he  has  been  reluctantly  induced  to  put  it  in  its  present  form,  as 
one  instance,  at  least,  of  the  good  results  that  may  follow  the  operations  of 
penitentiary  punishment,  which  originated  in  Pennsylvania,  and  which  must 
become  universal  wherever  society  has  for  its  object  the  reformation,  as  well 
as  punishment,  of  such  of  its  unfortunate  members  as  have  been,  or  may  be, 
similarly  situated  with  the  one,  who,  under  a  fictitious  name,  subscribes  him 
self  the  reader's  friend. 

HARRY  HAWSER, 

Sailor,  $c. 

PHILADELPHIA,  JULT  25,  1843. 

*  The  name  generally  given  to  the  Eastern  S'tate  Peniloiitiary,  from  the  fact  that  its  site  was  thus 
called  by  its  original  proprietor. 


tt  ft 


Ye  sisters  nine,  inspire,  yet  once  again, 
With  your  poetic  fires  the  wanderer's  pen. 
He  may  not  .hope  to  reach  the  height  Parnassus, 
Where  rears  his  mane  of  light  the  wing'd  Pegassus, 
But,  by  your  leave,  will  tread  the  plains  below, 
Where  steeds  of  good,  but  cooler  mettle  grow. 
He  fain  would  tell,  in  metre,  what  he  knows,      -^  -.-. 
Although  his  poesy,  or  his  humble  prose 
May  not  be  such  as  pleases  certain  would  be, 
Most  knowing  hypercritics,  —  if  they  could  be. 


4-H      ...          ^^ *y  iw  <*<  ,sr  w»  <j-  &J « 
AS        • » .    .     ,.      .-'     »      i      ." 

7>ft  »  «•  to*         *..'  •  '     ••  __ 

YW      .-  v  "$ ':•   *T.  =    /  x 

Dedication,                                                                                               Page  3 

Preface,          -     -  -        -     -  -        -     -  -     •  •     '  -      '    •  N*  -  «°     -  5 

Invocation,        •-      •-      -  -     --     --     •  •     •  -     *.'-          ...  6 

The  Sailor,      --------->     ~   -----     -        -  9 

A  Mother's  Love,      --'..--        --------        -  10 

Columbia's  Seamen,        ------        -        -          -        -        -  11 

Song,        -•«.    r 12 

Woman,       •  -     -  -     -"•    •  -.    •'-.'••  *>..  ~~-    -•  -                   -  13 

The  Dying  Sailor,        -------- 13 

The  Captive  to  his  Mistress, 14 

Our  Constitution  and  our  Native  Land,     -  -       --        -•         -        -        -  16 

To  *******,     .      -.      -•„•    -.      -.      --        J-      -          .        .        .  18 

Song  for  New  Year  Morn,  *        «•        -       "-       *         -        -        -19 

To  *******       .        -_        -.        -_        -.        -.        -.         .        -  -         .         .  20 

The  Spirit  Land,          -**»»!.*          -__2l 

Toasts,     -         -        •-      >-.;V      »,----           ...  22 

Columbia's  Flag,          •*        f,,  ,f    •  .*,  .    *       ~*      "*'   •     "•        *        •  2^ 

Extemporaneous  Lines,           -  -      -  -      -  -      -        - "      ,«•*",      -  •  •     -  26 

The  Dying  Slave, -      --     '.r-      -    «'  -        -  27 

A  Pastoral,      -  -      -        .-.-.--•-        -          s        .        .  28 

Virtue  and  Desire,       -        -  -     -        -        -----       .-       .        .  29 

Florence  Rosamell,          -        „----•----      --      -"„•  30 

To  a  Little  Miss,          -        -        -        --        -          -*-        -        -32 

Roll  it  out  Yet  Once  Again,     ----------        -        -  33 

The  Sailor's  Burial,       -      -        -        -----        -        .        .        .  34 

Woman, 35 

Fairmaine — La  Belle, -  85 

1%  i    »        r*  -IT.          • 

Death  s  Grand  Review,     -        -                 ..-..-  :     5  .  35 

Mellicent  St.  Cloud,      -        -      -  -        -        -      -  -      -  -      -  -      '-        -  39 

Lines,  on  the  death  of  William  H.  Harrison, 40 

Woman's  Love,        -        -        --        -  -        -        --        -40 

Tell  me  not  of  Pleasure's  Flowing,                 -  -      -  41 

Come  to  me,  Lov'd  One,                     -        -•     -~-      '-        ^a*     -  42 

Lines,  on  the  Capture  and  Burning  of  Quallah  Battoo,     -      --       -"  43 

The  Battle  of  Trenton,        -        -        -        --       -        --       .-       .     <  _  45 

Our  City  and  its  Fair,    -        -        -        -        ...        -  -     .      • .-  4' 

Lines,  to  the  Memory  of  Lieut.  S.B.S., -  41 

To*******,-       --       --"'   -:   *_  -••   '--.'      -- 49 

Sunrise, 50 

To  *******,         -        -        -        -        -        -        -        -        -        -        -  50 

Lines,  on  the  Death  of  Capt.  James  Lawrence,        ....  51 

To  a  Mother  Weeping  for  her  First  Born,            -        -        -     .'  -"•    »  tit 

The  Flower  Girl,        -                 •  53 

Lines,  to  the  Memory  of  a  Friend,        -        -        -        -                *        .  54 

Our  City  not  a  Paradise,        -        -  55 

Lines,  on  the  Loss  of  the  United  States  Ship  Hornet,   ^-        .        -        -  58 


C  O  X  T  E  *  T  8  . 

To  *******        .         .         .         .         .         .        i.  •     .         ...         .  61 

Our  Forefathers,          ^     '    -        -        - 62 

Thoughts  of  a  Prisoner  on  Regaining  his  Liberty, 63 

The  Ingrate  at  the  Grave  of  his  Mother,      -        -  '     -        -        -        -  64 

Quo3llla 1 65 

Aye  !  Nail  it  Firmly  to  the  Mast,  ^je^^  -  -  -'  -  -  -  66 
To*******,  .  .  .  r^.lT^.i'  *  .  .  -  .67 

Time's  Flight, '.    -  •       •      '•    <".-    v..      -  67 

To*******,        ..  •-.-.*'•.'.      .»-..'.,-  ,J    ..-      .-        ,iroi>  -  68 

The  Captive,       -    .    -     -•     .-     .-     .  -     --     -*     '- -      --        -  70 

To  the  Sailor,      .    -     .-     .  -     .-     .---.-    •  J>.    -----        -  71 

To  *******          .         .      '.         .         .         .         .        ,.         ._.         .  72 

Our  World,'    -    .    -      _  -      .  -      -  -      .  -        -      .  -      -  -      t9vo,I  Vw         73 

To  *******,  ...  .  ...  ....       f<f5,<I>j*:4  c.';JTl.  74 

The  Lover  at  the  Tomb  of  his  Mistress,      -,v;*  -  .  -     .  -     -  -     -  -        -    75 

Clara,         -        -        -        -      .  -        ........  •  i  .......    .iwmoW 

Lines,  on  Washington,     --        --.-.-.--        -        -77 

The  Reclaimed  Drunkard  to  his  Acquaintances,         -   •/,.  ffrf  ofo  •/    -        78 
The  Sacrificed,  -          -          ....        •f-.f.s  noil  ;:..••        •     79 

Touch  not  the  Sparkling  Bowl,          -        -        -_-_«_-  t«*«n*      80 

Flora  Dell, *        -   fv#r  16,Y  -*-        -       81 

The  Wine  Cup,        ...        .  -        -       .-       .-    ,•«*»«' 

Eyes,  - -        -        -'r—.—        83 

To  Miss  F*****  B*****,          -  «r;      ..;*•>, 

Isabel  May,  .-  -  -  -.  -  -  -  -  *  -  -  -  86 
Our  Country,  -.--  -.-.-.-  -  -  -  -88 

To  the  Infidel,  -  .      - - 

The  Creation,        -        -        -        - .      -  .      -  .  '  -  -      -  T    '  -  -      -        -       92 

To*******, ..._..     .  ^Hff-jd  fwjj 

Ode,  -          -        --        -.-----.«    -,[fenj>sw;JI  •:>."        95 

To  *******,     -        -        -.-.»...-.,.  -    .  .-  ^  tSsM  '9*111. 
Give  me  to  Drink,    .-_•.-        -        -        -        -        .        -.'  }»<?  fi     97 

To  the  Ocean,  -         -         -         -         ---         ---         -         -  98 

The  Sinner  to  his  Soul,        -        •'-      -        -        --     --     -.     •      .;-      100 

I  want  a  Beau ! — I've  got  a  Beau ! — I'm  Married  now,    -      3-.KJ-~«3ty       1°2 
To*******,        -        -        ........... 

Lines,         i,>r    •-«,'-"'  •!•  ' ',.•-'  '.-     -«•     '»•-     ••'.   .-••   4br-        •  104 

Memory, t  .H  xnui:  -        -        -        -        105 

Columbia  at  the  Grave  of  Decatur,  -.  -.  --  -.  <. ,9vc>Tl  *';:-  106 
Wake,  Wake  the  Lyre,  ':~'~*.  *.  V'«HWT>I^[  a^a'i"  •  •  "  109 

The  Contrast,  -      -  v     -.-,"->. 

1,2,          -. HO 

TheRose,  ....  -.  +.:  *-  -  -  -  -  HI 
Sunset,  -  --  -.-..-  ...  -  HI 

A  Paraphrase  of  the  4th  and  .5th  verses  of  the  95th  Psalm,  -  -  112 
The  Creation  of  Eve,  -  -  -  ....  -  -  -113 
Cava: — A  Lay  for  the  Ladies,  -  ....  -v  .  -  *, '-.  ^.  -  "_  114 
An  Inebriate's  Solitary  Thoughts,  -.  --  -,  --  -,  -.  -  120 
What  was — What  is — What  may  be,  ;i»l>.;>dfRl  .jrp'.O'ii?  >.V  -  -  12* 

58        -,         ..       -,.  — -  * '' '    -             .ij'usil  I't'ii'i  'io/;  "H/l   .;I:T  '^ 
'+-*'*.,-- 

Ml     'i  "    '     -     '  •'•      •  -         '         '         '          • 

ad         ......    ~  •*, '  ~  *, 

Ml  *-         -         -  -^oiu.I 


BUDS  AND  FLOWERS, 


I  am  a  jovial  tar  and  true, 

As  ever  handled  brace  or  sail, 
And  in  my  frock  and  jacket  blue, 

Have  weathered  many  a  stormy  gale. 
'Tis  my  delight,  when  sable  night 

Has  o'er  the  ocean  thrown  her  veil, 
Like  any  spright,  the  giddy  height 

To  mount,  and  hand  the  pliant  sail. 

O,  is  it  not  a  glorious  sight, 

A  staunch  and  gallant  ship  to  see— 
With  hull  and  rigging  black  as  night, 

And  manned  with  ocean's  chivalry- 
Go  forth,  so  like  a  thing  of  life, 

With  flowing  sheet  and  bow-line  free, 
To  mingle  in  the  bloody  strife, 

And  wreathe  her  prow  with  victory  ! 

And  who  so  happy  as  the  tar, 

With  gallant  vessel  bounding  free 

Along  the  wave,  when  many  a  star 
Illumes  the  sky  with  brilliancy  ! 
2 


10  BUDS    AND    FLOWERS. 

And  what  does  he  for  Boreas  care, 
Or  bearded  Nep,  or  frowning  Jove  ? 

The  tempest's  wrath  he'll  boldly  dare, 
And  still  the  fickle  water's  rove. 


It  matters  not  how  virtuous  or  vile 
May  be  the  object  of  a  mother's  love, 

Whether  the  heart  be  prone  to  good  or  guile, 
In  storm  or  sunshine  it  the  same  will  prove. 

With  what  delight  she  looks  upon  her  boy, 
When  verging  on  to  manhood's  busy  years  ! 

His  manly  beauty  fills  her  heart  with  joy- 
That  heart  a  varied  scene  of  hopes  and  fears. 

Hopes,  that  his  manly  breast  may  ever  know, 
The  baneful  deed  of  wrong,  from  that  of  right ; 

Fears,  that  the  vain  and  giddy  world  may  throw 
Around  his  heart  a  cold  and  withering  blight. 

And  should  misfortune  throw  around  his  name, 
The  chilling  shadows  of  her  sombre  wing, 

And  he,  by  error  led,  be  doom'xl  to  shame, 
Her  love  will  soothe  away  the  half  its  sting. 

O,  who  can  paint  a  mother's  lasting  love  ? 

It  does  not,  as  the  mellow  beams  of  light, 
Which  in  their  beauty  gild  yon  arch  above, 

Forsake  its  sphere  when  fall  the  clouds  of  night. 

Nay,  when  around  it  low'r  the  clouds  of  life, 
That  love  grows  stronger,  as  the  ocean  wave 

Lash'd  into  fury  'mid  the -angry  strife 

Of  warring  elements,  and  dies  but  in  the  grave. 


BUDSANDFLOWERS.  11 


When  Britain  with  imperious  sway, 

In  power  exulting  swept  the  wave, 
And  strove  with  stern  oppression's  chains, 

Columbia's  seamen  to  enslave, 
They  seiz'd  that  proud  and  starred  flag, 

The  rallying  standard  of  the  free, 
And  'neath  its  folds,  through  srrioke  and  flame, 

'Mid  blood  and  wreck,  on  every  sea, 
Proclaim'd  to  an  admiring  world, 

That  still  those  bright  and  holy  fires 
Which  warm'd  in  many  a  bloody  fight, 

The  bosoms  of  their  patriot  sires, 
Burnt  brightly  as  in  days  of  yore, 

When  Albion's  rampant  lion  fell 
Before  the  noble  bird  of  Jove, 

And  tyrants  bade  our  land  farewell. 

Yes,  they  are  brave,  and  while  a  plank 

Will  float  upon  the  bounding  billow, 
Columbia's  tars  will  fight  like  men, 

Or  seek  a  watery  pillow. 
I've  seen  them  in  the  bloody  fray, 

I've  seen  their  dark  eyes  flashing, 
When  daring  death  in  serried  ranks, 

Or  through  the  tempest  dashing. 
I've  them  on  a  dangerous  lee, 

Where  mountain  billows  flaunted ; 
Among  the  dark  and  iron  rocks 

I've  seen  them,  still  undaunted. 
Our  seamen's  feats  have  gained  for  them, 

A  glorious  and  an  envied  name  : 
As  glowing  stars  the  midnight  sky, 

Their  deeds  illume  the  scroll  of  fame. 


12  BUDS    AND    FLOWERS. 


Where  the  woodbines  were  creeping, 

A  maiden  sat  weeping, 
For  her  lover  had  gone  to  the  red  battle  field: 

The  bright  beams  of  morning, 

Each  wild  flow'r  adorning, 
Were  dancing  in  beauty  on  banner  and  shield. 

With  pearly  tears  streaming, 

From  eyes  brightly  beaming, 
The  rose-tinted  cheeks  of  this  maiden  were  wet ; 

While  wantonly  straying, 

The  zephyrs  were  playing, 
And  chaunting  their  notes  'mong  her  tresses  of  jet. 

The  cannon's  loud  rattle, 

The  deep  din  of  battle, 
On  the  wings  of  the  wind  to  this  maiden  were  borne  ; 

*Mong  the  dead  and  the  dying 

Her  lov'd  one  was  lying, 
With  the  banner  he'd  fought  for  all  bloody  and  torn. 

The  clarion's  were  pealing, 

This  maiden  was  kneeling, 
The  cold  corpse  of  him  her  own  lov'd  one  beside  ; 

For  a  moment  she  gaz'd 

On  his  feature's  amaz'd, 
Then  slowly  sank  down  on  his  bosom  and  died. 


Taciturn  sylvas  inter  repture  salubres, 


Curanturn  quicquid  dignum  sapiente  bonoquc  est 

Ilwurc. 


BUDS    AND    FLOWERS.  13 


O  what  is  there  on  earth  so  fair,  as  Woman  in  her  purity  ? 
Yon  dome  of  blue,  the  sparkling  dew,  the  foam  upon  the  rosy  sea, 
The  morning  star,  the  glowing  car  that  bears  thepeerless  queen  of  night, 
The  pearls  that  gem  the  diadem  of  ocean  are  not  half  so  bright. 

Let  stoics  sneer !  was  she  not  here  the  clouds  of  life  to  dissipate, 
And  with  her  smile  its  pains  beguile,  darksome  indeed  were  our  estate. 
When  sickness  flings  her  gloomy  wings  around  the  brow  of  lordly  man, 
His  pains  she  soothes,  his  pillow  smoothes,  and  cheers  him  as  no  other 

[[can. 

The  magic  hand  that  form'd  the  land  and  bade  the  sea  its  billows  roll, 
Whose  fiat  threw  yon  boundless  blue  from  east  to  west,  from  pole  to  pole, 
And  made  the  sun  to  shine  upon  the  rich  and  poor,  the  serf  and  king, 
And  Cynthia  bright  o'er  Ethiop  night  the  radiance  of  her  brow  to  fling. 

Look'd  on  them  all,  both  great  and  small,  the  brute,  the  fish  that  swim 

[the  flood, 

The  birds  that  fly  along  the  sky,  and  one  and  all,  pronounc'd  he  good. 
Then  Man  was  made,  in  pow'r  array'd  by  HIM,  to  live  Creation's  king, 
And  from  his  side  a  beauteous  bride — the  last,  the  best,  the  fairest  thing. 


Raise  me,  that  I  may  gaze  once  more, 
Upon  the  blue  and  laughing  tide, 

And  see  the  sun  his  radiance  pour, 
And  watch  the  sportive  dolphin  glide 

Along  the  snow-capp'd  wave. 


14  BUDS    AND    FLOWERS. 

Ah  !  many  a  time  and  oft,  I've  said 
That  ocean's  fairy  waves  should  be 

My  resting  place  when  I  was  dead  ; 
That  dancing  waves  their  minstrelsy 

Should  chaunt  above  my  grave. 

And  now  the  hour  has  come,  and  now 
I  bid  farewell  to  all  that's  bright ; 

The  death-damps  gather  on  my  brow, 
A  film  comes  over  my  fevered  sight ; — 

Earth,  ocean,  friends  adieu  ! 

He  sunk  to  rest,  and  many  a  tear, 

From  eyes  of  men  unus'd  to  weeping, 

Fell  o'er  their  comrades  starred  bier: — 
The  young,  the  brave,  in  peace  is  sleeping, 
Beneath  the  waters  blue. 


Clara,  ah  well  I  know  that  bosom's  feeling ! 

No  selfish  thought  can  ever  enter  there  ; 
The  sunbeam  o'er  some  silver  streamlet  stealing 

In  wanton  gambols,  is  not  half  so  fair. 
The  seraphim  that  grace  yon  beaming  heaven, — 

A  glorious  halo  cincturing  each  brow, — 
Pure  as  they  are,  have  more  to  be  forgiven 

Of  Him,  the  Great  Magician,  than  hast  thou. 

Turn  thou  thy  beauteous  face,  and  throw  a  beam 
Of  gladness  o'er  the  captive's  gloomy  brow  ! 

Let  him,  oh,  let  him  gather  one  bright  gleam 
Of  sunshine  from  thy  features  ;  'twill  endow 


BUDSANDFLOWERS.  15 

The  wayward  slave  of  folly  with  a  spell 

Which  the  gay  world  shall  strive  to  break  in  vain, 

And  long,  aye  ever  fondly  shall  it  dwell 
With  other  links  in  memory's  golden  chain. 

I  've  said  thou  'rt  kind  ; — is  there -one  little  space 

.  In  thy  young  heart,  where  purest  sympathy 
Might  find  a  home,  a  hallow'-d  resting  place, 

And  sometimes  turn  thy  memory  to  me  ? 
I  trust  there  is  !     The  dancing  billows  play, 

The  gallant  vessel  surging  through  the  sea, 
The  .brow  of  beauty,  ocean's  rainbow  spray, 

Shall  all  be  merged  in  one  fond  thought  of  thee  ! 

Why  do  I  ask  thee,  chaste  and  fair  one,  why 

Tune  my  lays  to  one  so  pure  and  meek  ? 
Why  does  the  humbled  felon,  ere  he  die, 

Turn  t'o'ard  yon  azure  dome,  as  if  to  seek  . 
Some  soothing  ray  of  hope  that 't  will  be  well, 

With  his  undying  soul,  when  life  hath  fled 
Its  clayey  tenement,  and  the  muffled  bell 

Tolls  out  its  requiem  for  the  unhonour'd  dead? 
I  would  that  some  bright  vision,  such  as  may 

Be  conjur?d  up  by  gazing  on  forms  like  thine, 
Should  linger  on  my  mind  both  night  and  day, 

And  rear  itself,  into  a  hallow'd  shrine, 

At  which  my  humble  prayers  might  all  be  told, 
As  in  some  sacred  temple  ting'd  with  gold, 
And  where  voice,  timbrel,  harp,  and  lute  combin'd, 

Awake  such  sounds  as  Orpheus  of  yore, 
To  please  his  spouse,  in  Pluto's  realms  confined, 

Struck  from  the  lyre  on  Lethe's  shady  shore. 


Her  snowy  brow  with  flow'rs  was  bound, 
Her  silken  hair,  in  wary  curls 

Of  glistening  gold,  fell  down  around 
A  neck  and  bosom  white  as  pearls. 


16  BUDS    AND    FLOWERS 


Who  hath  not  heard  how  oft  in  days  of  yore, 

Our  infant  Navy,  with  its  stripes  and  stars, 

Made  vaunting  England  bleed  at  every  pore, 

And  taught  the  world  that  famed  Columbia's  tars 
Were  worthy  scions  of  that  fearless  band, 
Which  fought  for  freedom  and  their  native  land. 
When  God-like  Washington  led  on  the  van, 
And  freed  his  fellow  men  from  slavery's  ban? 

Who  hath  not  heard  how  boasting  England  said, 
That  she,  the  mistress  of  the  sea,  would  sweep 
Our  feeble  fleet  from  off  the  wave,  and  spread 

Destruction  o'er  the  bosom  of  the  deep  ? 
How,  on  the  wave,  her  haughty  myrmidons 
Impress'd  and  scourg'd  Columbia's  hardy  sons, 
And  bade  them  bend  to  kings  the  servile  knee, 
Forswear  their  country,  friends,  and  liberty  ? 

Who  hath  not  heard  the  answer  that  was  given, 
By  this  undaunted,  more  than  Spartan  band  1 
"  We  scorn  your  threats;  we  bend  the  knee  to  heaven, 

And  fight  for  freedom  and  our  native  land  ! 
Our  starred  banner  gallantly  shall  wave 
As  long  as  ocean's  graceful  billows  lave 
Its  myriad  isles  !  our  watchword  still  shall  be, 
Our  God,  our  country,  friends  and  liberty  !" 

Who  hath  not  heard  how  Hull  and  Dacres  met; — 
The  sterling  patriot,  and  the  garter'd  knight? 

"  The  warrior,"  in  the  Briton's  topsails  set ; 
And  from  his  mizzen-peak,  a  pennant  bright 


BUDS    AND    FLOWERS. 

Roll'd  out  its  glittering  texture  to  the  breeze, 
Bearing  defiance — and  the  words  were  these, — 
(Expressing  what  the  boaster  proudly  felt,) 
"This  is  the  Guerrierej  not  the  Little  Belt!" 

Who  hath  not  heard  how  Dacres  and  his  crew 
Swung  round  their  hats  and  shouted  "  victory  !" 

While  Hull  his  gallant  vessel  boldly  threw 
Broadside  and  broadside  with  his  enemy  ? 

Then  iron  deaths  flew  thickly  o'er  the  flood  ; 

The  Guerriere's  riven  decks  were  bath'd  in  blood  ; 

Her  shatter'd  masts  with  heavy  balls  were  bor'd, 

Her  noble  hull  from  stem  to  stern  was  scor'd. 

Old  Albion's  haughty  ensign  sought  the  deck, 

And  England's  chaplet  trembled,  when  the  free 
Enwrapp'd  in  flames  the  Guerriere's  shatter'd  wreck, 

And  strew'd  her  timbers  o'er  the  laughing  sea. 
Old  Ironsides — our  country's  boast  and  pride, 
Still  roll  thou  proudly  o'er  the  tropic  tide ; 
The  warrior  Mars  thy  willing  rudder  guides, 
Columbia's  ocean  scourge — Old  Ironsides. 

Our  country's  youth — the  lisping  babe  is  taught 

To  trace  the  bright  and  burnish'd  scroll  of  fame  ; 
To  emulate  the  deeds  of  those  who  fought,-    . 
And  bled,  and  planted  freedom's  oriflame, 
Where,  while  the  sun  rears  high  his  glowing  crest 
Above  this  smiling  Eden  of  the  West, 
As  firm  as  adamantine  rocks  shall  stand, 
The  flag  of  Freedom  and  our  Native  Land. 


The  fairest  flower  is  dpom'd  to  fade; 

The  brightest  sky  will  wear  a  cloud  ; 
The  loveliest  form  is  soonest  laid 

Within  its  winding  shroud. 


18  BUDS    AND    FLOWERS. 


*  *  *  •*-  *  *  *  *  *  *  * 


0  how  I  love  to  gaze  upon  such  faultless  forms  as  thine, 

And  gazing  wish  that  pow'r  and  wealth,  and  virtue's  wreath  were  mine, 
That  I  might  win  the  cherub  smiles  upon  thy  ruby  lip, 
That  for  an  instant  I  might  thence  the  purest  nectar  sip. 

But  why  should  I,  the  doom'd  of  Heaven,  such  impious  thoughts  retain  ! 
Away  then  every  nobler  wish,  thy  blandishments  are  vain, 
No  more  shall  lovely  woman's  face  be  clad  in  smiles  for  me ; 
No  more  her  voice  in  tones  of  pure,  deep,  thrilling  melody 

Come  o'er  my  soul ! — since  fate  has  thrown  her  gloomy  drapery 
Around  my  life,  I'll  wander  forth  upon  the  stormy  sea ; 
The  thunder  clap,  the  howling  wind,  the  lightning's  ruddy  glare, 
The  spirits  of  the  storm  shall  be  my  boon  companions  there. 

1  ask  no  other  resting  place  when  I  am  with  the  dead, 

Than  such  as  countless  myriads  know,  the  ocean's  coral  bed ; 
I  ask  no  sculptur'd  monument,  no  cypress  bough  or  willow, 
My  grave  shall  be  the  open  sea,  the  blue  and  crested  billow. 

I  ask  but  friends  to  clothe  me  in  the  cerements  of  the  grave, 
To  launch  my  body  forth  upon  the  blue  and  laughing  wave ; 
The  laughing  wave,  the  coral  wave,  my  resting  place  shall  be, 
And  all  unworthy  as  I  am,  thou'lt  drop  a  tear  for  me. 


On  the  blood  reeking  plain  and  the  dark  rolling  main, 
Will  freedom's  own  children  her  banner  sustain  ; 
And  liberty's  emblem,  the  eagle,  shall  soar, 
Unfetter'd  and  free  until  Time  is  no  more. 


BUDS    AND    FLOWERS.  19 


Fill  high  the  bowl,  we'll  bathe  the  soul 

In  floods  of  rosy  wine, 
And  offer  up  the  sparkling  cup 

At  friendship's  holy  shrine, 
The  olden  year  upon  his  bier, 

Is  lying  cold  and  pale ; 
Then,  while  we  pass  the  sparkling  glass, 

Another's  birth  we'll  hail. 

Come  push  around  with  garlands  bound, 

The  mant'ling  bowl  again ; 
Each  time  we  drink  we  add  a  link 

To  friendship's  golden  chain  ; 
And  let  each  heart  with  joy  impart, 

A  portion  of  its  mirth, 
While  round  we  pass  the  sparkling  glass, 

To  greet  a  New-Year's  birth. 

Old  Time  may  fling  his  sombre  wing 

Around  earth's  fairy  bowers, 
And  'neath  his  storms  the  fairest  forms 

May  fall  like  blasted  flowers  ; 
But  while  the  light  of  life  is  bright, 

And  spreads  its  genial  beam, 
We'll  strive  to  drown  his  darkest  frown, 

In  friendship's  dazzling  stream. 

Then  seize  the  bowl,  each  jovial  soul, 

The  new-born  year  may  shed, 
No  fairy  beam,  no  brilliant  gleam, 

Around  the  mould'ring  dead  ; 
But  we  in  life,  our  bosom's  rife 

With  pleasure's  roseate  rays, 
Will  once  again  awake  the  strain, 

That  tells  of  by-gone  days. 


20  BUDS    AND    FLOWERS. 


I've  stood  beside  that  blue  and  tideless  sea, 

Which  rolls  its  bright  and  laughing  waves  along 
The  green  and  smiling  sh,ores  of  Italy, 

With  murmurings  sweeter  than  a  siren's  song  : 
I've  seen  the  loveliest  beings  there, 
And  listen'd  to  their  minstrelsy, 
But  never  saw  I  one  so  fair, 
So  worthy  to  be  lov'd  as  thee. 

I've  stood  beneath  that  Eden's  cloudless  skies, 

When  bright  and  clust'ring  stars  were  in  them  hung, 
And  cooling  zephyrs,  soft  as  maiden's  sighs, 
Wanton'd  like  birds  its  leafy  groves  among; 
And  there  I've  heard  the  lover's  vow 

Breath'd  warmly  forth  at  beauty's  shrine  ; 
And  there,  on  many  a  lovely  brow, 
A  charm  I've  seen,  but  none  like  thine. 

I've  mingled  with  the  fairest  in  the  dance, 

When  troll'd  the  harp  and  jocund  castanet, 
And  seen  the  rays  of  many  a  sunny  glance, 
In  eyes  of  blue  and  lovely  orbs  of  jet. 
Of  all  the  gems  so  thickly  strewn 

O'er  charming,  beauteous  Italy/ 
My  faithful  memory  will  not  own 
One  half  so  fair,  so  bright  as  thee. 


She  comes — a  Jewell' d  ring  is  set 

Upon  her  finger  now, 
In  glossy  braids  her  locks  of  jet 

Are  parted  on  her  brow, 
And  round  her  luscious  lip  a  smile, 
Of  witching  sweetness  plays  the  while. 


BUDS    AND    FLOWERS.  21 


This  world  is  beautiful  'tis  true, 

But  there's  a  brighter  far  than  this 
Beyond  that  dome  of  wavy  blue — 

A  home  of  everlasting  bliss  ; 
That  Spirit  Land  whose  canopy 

Is  never  sullied  with  a  cloud  ; 
Where  clad  in  spotless  drapery, 

Their  heads  in  adoration  bow'd, 
A  myriad  band  of  vestals  raise 
Their  voices  in  Jehovah's  praise. 

There  purling  streams  and  shady  bowers, 

With  fields  of  amaranthine  hue, 
And  beds  of  bright,  ambrosial  flowers, 

Impearl'd  with  the  purest  dew, 
On  every  hand,  to  glad  the  eye, 

Are  spread  in  loveliness — and  there, 
Than  those  of  sultry  Araby, 

The  breezes  richer  perfumes  bear  ; 
There,  too,  such  melody  is  heard, 
As  never  mortal's  bosom  stirr'd. 

Who  would  not  leave  a  sphere  like  this, 

Tho'  bright  and  beautiful  it  be, 
In  realms  of  never-ending  bliss 

To  reign  throughout  eternity  ? 
Who  would  not  leave  a  world  so  vain, 

So  fraught  with  misery  and  care, 
So  rife  with  harr'wing  grief  and  pain, 

To  dwell  with  saints  in  glory  there, 
And  'neath  those  grateful  shades  recline, 
Where  all  is  hallow'd,  all  divine. 


22  BUDS    AND    FLOWERS. 


Come  let  us  drink,  my  jovial  tars, 

A  flowing  glass  to  those  who  bore 
Our  saucy  flag,  the  stripes  and  stars, 

The  bunting  of  this  Eden  shore, 
When  England  left  her  sea-girt  coast, 

With  gallant  armament  to  sweep, 
As  she  had  sworn — an  empty  boast — 

Our  "  cock-boats  "  from  the  bounding  deep. 

Unfurl  the  burning  scroll  of  fame  ; 

No  clime  can  boast  a  sheet  so  fair; — 
Unfurl  her  scroll  and  read  each  name 

Inscrib'd  in  golden  letters  there  ; 
With  his,  who  by  false  honour  led, 

Met  death  from  one  to  fame  unknown, 
And  those  who  died  in  glory's  bed, 

Are  those  of  they  who  still  live  on. 

Fill  high,  ye  tigers  of  the  main ! 

The  beaming  goblet's  bright  contents, 
With  three  times  three  around,  we'll  drain, 

To  those  who  need  no  monuments, — 
No  limner's  skill, — no  sculptor's  art, — 

Whose  glorious  deeds  upon  the  seas, 
Are  penn'd  on  ev'ry  freeman's  heart, 

Are  heard  in  ev'ry  passing  breeze. 

Fill  high,  and  to  the  memory 

Of  him  who  'mid  the  fiercest  fight, 

Before  the  walls  of  Tripoli, 

Bore  down  the  crescent  in  its  might, 


BUDS    AND    FLOWERS. 

And  on  the  Atlantic  billow  won 

A  fadeless  wreath,  a  laurel  crown, 
When  the  proud  cross  of  Albion 

Before  the  starred  flag  came  down. 

Drink  first,  drink  standing,  one  and  all ; 

Drink  deep,  my  lads,  and  should  a  tear, 
At  fate,  like  brave  Decatur's,  fall 

From  the  bright  eye  of  any  here, 
Why,  mix  it  with  the  sparkling  tide 

We  quaff  in  sorrow  o'er  the  grave 
Of  him  who  liv'd  his  country's  pride, 

The  Eagle  of  the  mountain  wave. 

Once  more  !  and  in  the  ruddy  tide, — 

Bar'd  every  brow  the  while, — we'll  sip 
Peace  to  his  shade,  who  dying  cried — 

"  My  heroes — don't  give  up  the  ship!"  * 
A  fated  ship  !  but  still  the  name 

Of  him  who  captur'd  Juno's  bird, 
Shall  be,  while  earth  hath  place  for  Fame 

To  rest  her  foot,  a  rallying  word. 

Now,  to  his  memory  who  fell 

In  victory's  arms,  of  whom  the  tide 
Of  ocean  sung  the  dirge,  whose  knell 

Was  toll'd  against  the  Boxer's  side;t 
And  his  who  in  the  Argus  died : — 

Who  bore  Columbia's  thunders  o'er 
The  waste  of  waters,  and  defied 

The  foe  upon  his  native  shore.  J 

Again,  fill  high  !  aye,  to  the  brim — 
To  Stewart,  Hull,  and  Jones,  the  brave, 

To  Bainbridge,  Porter,  and  to  him 
Who  beat  the  foe  on  Erie's  wave ; 

*  Lawrence.  f  Burroughs.  +  Allen. 


24  BUD  S    AN  D    F  L  O  W  E  RS  . 

Drink  deep,  my  tars,  and  fill  again  ! 

To  Blakely,  Biddle,  Patterson, 
Downes,  Morris,  he  of  lake  Champlain, 

Wadsworth,  and  Somers,  and  we're  done. 

Nay,  fill  to  Allen,  nobly  brave, 

Who  for  his  country,  in  the  pride 
Of  manhood  fell,  when  on  the  wave, 

A  pirate  horde  her  laws  defied  ; 
And  Stockton— never  worthier  name — 

Nor  warmer  heart — nor  brighter  mind, 
Has  grac'd  our  soil,  and  never  fame, 

For  nobler  brow  a  wreath  entwin'd. 

'  And,  sailors,  let  us  not  forget 

To  quaff  a  flowing  glass  to  those, 
Who  first  upon  the  billow  met, 

And  conquered  Columbia's  foes  ; 
Fill  high,  then  !  be  the  memories  blest 

Of  Truxton,  Barney,  Biddle,  Jones,     '*: 
Brave  Dale,  and  Murray — lightly  rest 

The  sod  above  their  honour'd  bones. 

Yet  once  more  let  the  nectar  gush, 

And  fill  each  goblet  high  !  and  now — 
In  wine  whose  current  wears  a  flush 

Like  that  upon  the  morning's  brow — 
To  those  brave  tars,  not  least,  tho'  last, 

Who  fought,  bled,  conquer'd  on  the  main, 
Who  nobly  faced  the  battle's  blast, 

Our  country's  banner  to  sustain. 


From  ocean's  foam,  along  .the  cyprian  shore, 
"Pis  said  the  dam  of  soft-lipp'd  Cupid  rose. 


BUDS    AND    FLOWERS.  25 


Roll  out  the  starred  flag,  and  cry 

The  watchword  of  the  free, 
Beneath  its  folds  we'll  do  or  die,    \ 

For  friends,  and  liberty! 
Rear  high  its  oaken  staff,  and  cry 

The  onslaught  of  the  brave  ; 
We'll  conquer,  or  our  blood  shall  dye 

The  flag  our  fathers  gave ! 

Roll  out  the  flag,  the  starred  flag, 

Proud  emblem  of  the  free  ; 
Columbia's  sons  shall  never  drag 

The  chains  of  tyranny  ! 
Twice  has  her  soaring  Eagle  borne 

Britannia's  Lion  down  ; 
Twice  have  her  hardy  warriors  torn 

A  gem  from  England's  crown. 

Then  roll  the  meteor  banner  out, 

The  banner  of  the  free, 
And  loudly  ev'ry  freeman  shout 

The  song  of  victory ; 
No  more  shall  England's  hireling  band, 

Or  dark  oppression  reign ; 
Columbia's  yeomen  rule  the  land, 

Her  sailors  rule  the  main. 


She  said  she  was  in  love — but  O,  she  lov'd  a  jolly  sailor  who 
Was  rock'd  by  tempests  to  and  fro,  upon  the  billows  blue. 


B  U  D  S"   AND    FLOWERS. 


WRITTEN  OS   BOAIID  THE    BAll&UK   H****,  AT  SEA. 

O,  that  it  might  forever  be — 
The  bosoms  now  so  foil  of  glee, — 

My  lot  to  linger  near  ! 
To  have  the  privilege  to  trace 
.The  features  of  each  lovely  face, 

I  see  around  me  here. 

To  gaze  upon  each  happy  brow, 
To  have  the  thrills  of  joy  as  now — 

So  sweet — so  exquisite  ; 
I  would  not,  ev'ry  sin  forgiven, 
Exchange  it  for  that  glowing  Heaven 

Portray'd  in  Holy  Writ. 

O,  this  were  an  Hesperides, 
A  Paradise  upon  the  seas— 

A  garden  rich  and  rare, 
Whose  golden  fruit,  the  stalwart  arm 
Of  God's  own  image  shields  from  harm, 

A  hqme  divinely  fair. 

Where  beauty,  with  her  peerless  form, 
Too  frail  to  brave  the  ocean's  storm, 

Hath  join'd  us,  with  her  lip 
Enwreath'd  in  smiles,  to  wile  away 
.   A  weary  hour,  while  ocean's  spray 

Is  sparkling  round  our  ship. 

I  will  not  wish  to  all,  nor  one, 

The  Spaniard's  wish^  that  yonder  sun 

May  shine  a  thousand  years 
Your  brows  around,  on  this  rude  earth  ; 
But  may  your  brows  be  rife  with  mirth 

While  in.  this  vale  of  tears. 


B  V  D  S    A  N  D    F  L  O  W  E  R  S  .  27 

And  when  the  Great  Commander's  call  •<'-*•  ( 
Shall  echo  through  this  spheric  ball, 

And  earth  and  sea  give  up 
Their  mould'ring  dead — a  motley  crowd — 
May  one  and  all  here  be  allow' d      •-.  '-'* 

To  taste  salvation's  cup. 


I  feel  the  clammy  hand  of  death  lie  heavy  on  my  brow, 

His  icy  fetters  fall  around  my  nerveless  members  now  ; 

But  lighter  they  than  were  the  chains  the  white  man's  ruffian  hand 

Put  on  my  limbs,  when  I  was  torn  from  my  own  father-land. 

r. 

With  thrice  an  hundred  bore  they  me  across  the  stormy  main, 
To  shrink  beneath  the  lash,  and  wear  vile  slav'ry's  burning  chain  ; 
They  tore  me  from  my  happy  home  on  Afric's  sunny  strand, 
They  robb'd  me  of  the  joys  I  knew  in  my  own  father-land. 

That  scene  is  fresh  in  memory  yet, — remember' d  all  too  well, — 
When  from  their  ships,  with  sword  and  scourge,  rush'd  down  the 

[[hounds  of  hell, 

Sweeping  like  tempest-blast  along  hill,  vale,  and  silver  sand, 
They  spread  destruction  o'er  the  face  of  my  own  father-land. 

Yes,  desolation  rang'd  at  will !    Around  the  lovely  spot — 
By  bounteous  nature  richly  clad — where  stood  my  humble  cot ; 
Fiend-like  they  trampl'd  down,  and  crush'd,  and  slrew'd  on  ev'ry  hand, 
The  fairest  charms  beneath  the  skies  of  my  own  father-land. 

Springing  like  tigers  at  my  throat,  this  wasted  form  around, 
With  scowls,  and  blows,  and  angry  words  the  galling  thongs  they  bound ; 
Then  forth  they  drove  me  like  a  brute,  that  fierce,  that  ruthless  band, 
With  many  a  lash  and  fearful  curse,  from  my  own  father-land. 


28  BUDSANDFLOWERS. 

The  negro  raised  himself  and  cried — "  the  grave  hath  clos'd  above 
My  mother  and  my  aged  sire,  the  all  I  had  to  love  ; 
And  Death,  thou  ransomer  of  slaves,  I  come,  at  thy  command  ; 
Away  vile  chains  !  I'm  free  again  !  farewell  my  father-land !" 

That  hapless  one  fell  back  and  died — but  ere  his  spirit  fled, 
With  hands  high  rais'd  he  call'd  a  curse  upon  the  white  man's  head 
"  Curse  ye,  white  man,  a  cleaving  curse  to  ye  who  slav'ry's  brand 
Sear'd  on  the  cheek  of  him  ye  stole  from  his  own  father-land !" 


Let  us  roam  through  the  meadows  !  the  mist  of  the  morn 
Is  asleep  on  the  mountain,  the  dew-spangled  thorn 
Its  blossoms  hath  spread  to  the  summer's  soft  gale, 
And  the  vi'let  and  cowslip  enamel  the  vale. 

The  black-bird  and  thrush,  on  the  light  bending  spray, 
C haunt  their  mellowest  notes  to  the  bright  orb  of  day, 
And  the  lark,  as  he  wings  thro'  the  heavens  his  flight, 
Carols  forth  a  sweet  lay  from  his  cloud-mantled  height. 

The  humming  bird  flits  round  the  vine  trellis'd  bower, 
Sipping  nectarine  sweets  from  each  velvet  leaf'd  flower; 
And  glassy  wing'd  bees,  from  the  honey-fraught  cup 
Of  the  peach's  sweet  blossom  a  rich  banquet  sup. 

What  a  myriad  of  beauties  !  how  charming  the  scene  ! 
The  landscape  how  smiling,  the  sky  how  serene ; 
How  fair  to  the  sight  is  each  grove-crested  hill, 
Each  verdure  clad  valley  and  sweet  purling  rill. 

All  nature  looks  glad  ; — 'tis  her  gala  day  now-r-i  & 
A  wreathe  of  bright  flowers  encircles  her  brow  ; 
She  is  robed  in  her  holiday  dress,  and  her  curls 
Flow  in  grace  on  her  shoulders  besprinkl'd  with  pearls. 


BUDS    AND    FLOWERS.  29 

She  is  here  in  her  beauty  ;  bud,  flower,  and  tree, 
The  mellow-voic'd  breezes  on  mountain  and  lea, 
The  forest's  wild  tenant,  the  bird  in  the  grove, 
To  greet  her,  have  join'd  the  full  chorus  of  love. 


Virtue  one  day  in  lovely  May — 

That  month  so  dang'rous  to  the  fair — 
Resolv'd  to  roam,  left  care  at  home, 

And  wander'd  forth  to  take  the  air. 
Within  a  grove  she  met  with  Love, 

Or  so  at  least  the  damsel  thought ; 
But 't  was  Desire,  whose  shafts  of  fire, 

Have  many  a  virgin's  ruin  wrought. 

His  rosy  wing,  the  silken  string 

Upon  the  urchin's  silver  bow, 
His  witching  eye,  like  autumn's  sky, 

And  e'en  his  very  arrows  glow, 
With  quiver  light,  and  baldric  bright, 

Were  so  like  Love's  the  maid  believ'd, 
As  more  than  one  before  had  done — 

Alas  for  them  !  and  was  deceiv'd. 

Maidens  beware  !  O,  have  a  care  ! 

Desire  oft  wanders  in  disguise  ; 
And  oft  his  arts,  the  lightest  hearts 

Have  doom'd  to  misery  and  sighs. 
The  wilding  bee  is  not  more  free, 

His  velvet  wings  no  honey  bear, 
But  on  his  tongue  a  nectar's  hung, 
And  she  who  tastes  it  weds  despair. 


30  BUD  SAND    FLOWERS. 


"  Alas  !  that  man  should  ever  win 
So  sweet  a  shrine  to  shame  and  sin, 
As  woman'^heart " 


I  saw  her,  when  in  infancy  she  lay, 

A  smiling  babe,  upon  her  mother's  breast ; 
She  was  a  seraph  then  ;  the  brightest  ray 

That  in  its  beauty  lights  the  glowing  west, 
When  Sol  is  sinking  to  his  billowy  bed, 

And  from  his  chariot  decks  the  summer's  sky, 
And  hill,  and  valley,  forest,  wave,  and  mead, 

With  mellow  tints  of  every  gorgeous  dye, — 

Is  not  more  pure  and  lovely. 

Again — when  weary  years  had  roll'd  away, 

I  look'd  upon  that  fair  and  guileless  creature : 
'Twas  on  a  bright  and  beaming  summer's  day, 

And  angel  smiles  lit  up  her  every  feature. 
With  others  of  her  sex  she  roam'd  among 

Earth's  many  tinted  fragrance  breathing  flow'rs, 
And  o'er  her  lithe  and  faultless  form  were  flung 

Such  charms  as  poets  sing  of  Paphian  bowers  ; 
Where  smiling  nymphs,  with  forms  of  peerless  mould, 

Wander  'mid  cooling  shades  'neath  cloudless  skies  ; 
Where  silver  streamlets  roll  o'er  sands  of  gold, 

And  blend  with  breezes  light  their  fairy  melodies. 

Again  I  saw  her, — 'twas  agala night; 

A  princely  hall  with  myriad  lights  was  glowing, 
And  beings  fair,  with  steps  as  aether  light, 

Mov'd  to  the  tones  of  richest  music,  flowing 


BUDS    AND    FLOWERS.  31 


In  thrilling  cadence  from  a  thousand  strings, 

And  soft  ton'd  flutes,  in  sweetest  melody, 
Their  numbers  mingled  ;  and  the  zephyrs  wings 

Bore  perfumes  sweet  as  those  of  Araby. 
Of  all  that  glittering,  beauteous  throng,  was  she 

The  fairest,  loveliest,  and  when  she  spoke, 
Her  voice,  as  mellow  as  the  murmuring  sea, 

In  witching  tones  on  ravish'd  list'ners  broke. 
Ah!  many  a  proud  soul'd  youth  the  willing  knee 

Would  there  have  bent,  one  cherub  smile  to  gain 
From  her,  his  bosom's  idol  ;  and  the  free 

With  pleasure  worn  vile  slav'ry's  galling  chain ; 
For  she  was  happy  then  ! — a  heavenly  dream 

Of  bliss  with  him  she  lov'd,  would  o'er  her  soul, — 
As  summer's  twilight  o'er  some  placid  stream, — 

At  such  an  hour  its  joyous  influence  roll. 
A  baseless  dream  ; — this  modest  flower  was  cast, 

E'en  by  the  ruffian  hand  that  should  have  been 
Its  stern  defender, — on  the  world's  rude  blast, 

A  withering  type  of  wretchedness  and  sin. 

Again  I  saw  her  ; — o'er  a  neck  more  fair 

Than  lilies  cull'd  in  Tempo's  blooming  vale, 
Fell  in  luxuriance  rich  her  raven  hair 

Upon  her  brow, — as  Sharon's  flow'ret  pale, — 
Reflecting  back  the  varied  lights  around, 

A  triple  row  of  gems  and  priceless  pearls, 
Her  sainted  mother's  gift,  was  lightly  bound, 

And  borrow'd  lustre  from  her  glossy  curls. 

She  was  at  prayer ; — 
About  her  rosy  lip  a  sweet  sad  smile, 

Which  might  a  joy,  a  new-born  hope  express, 
Play'd  in  its  winning  beauty,  and  the  while 

She  conjur'd  heaven,  in  melting  tones,  to  bless 
The  false  and  perjur'd  one,  the  heartless  fiend, 

To  whom  with  woman's  confidence  she'd  given 
Her  all,  her  virgin  heart, — and  fondly  lean'd 

As  on  a  friend  from  w"hom  the  hand  of  heaven, 
Alone,  could  part  her. 


32  BUDS    AND    F  I,  OWERS. 

I  saw  her  once  again ! — the  drapery  of  the  tomb 

Enwrapp'd  her  cold  remains,  and  flowers  fresh  blown, 
Gather'd  by  mourning  friends,  who  in  her  bloom 

Knew  the  fair  Florence, — o'er  her  lov'd  form  were  strown 
Above  her  pale,  cold  brow,  her  hair  of  jet, 

With  studied  care,  by  some  fair  hand  was  parted, 
And  'mong  its  braids  some  loving  friend  had  set 

A  chaste  white  rose,  of  her,  the  broken  hearted, 
Once  a  meet  emblem.     JJong  did  I  gaze  upon 

That  face  of  youth  and  loveliness,  and  there, 
Methought,  that  faultless  lip,  which  Death  had  won 

From  this  rude  earth,  did  still  the  impress  bear 
Of  that  sweet  smile,  which  lightly  play'd 

In  sunny  radiance  round  it  when  I  last 
Beheld  her,  as  she  meekly  knelt  and  pray'd, 

Bending  as  some  frail  flower  before  the  wint'ry  blast. 

I  saw  the  grave  close  o'er  the  fair  young  form 

Of  erring  Florence,  and  I  look'd  to  Heaven, 
That  home  of  happiness,  where  blight,  nor  storm 

Intrude,  to  mar  the  virtues,  or  the  graces  given 
To  things  of  earth  by  an  Almighty  power, 

And  sinner  though  I  was,  I  pray'd  fervently 
That  those  cerulean  realms  the  priceless  dower 

Of  the  lov'd  Florence  Rosamell  might  be. 


Thy  soft  blue  eye  and  thy  golden  hair, 
Thy  ruby  lip  and  thy  brow  so  fair, 
Thy  cheek,  where  the  white  and  red  rose  play, 
Thy  cherub  smile  and  thy  heart  so  gay, 
Thy  voice,  as  sweet  as  the  summer's  sea, 
Or  the  zephyr  light  on  the  verdant  lea, 
And  thy  angel  form,  all  of  earth  are  less 
Than  of  yonder  sweet  home  of  happiness. 


HUPS    AND    FLOWERS. 


Roll  it  out  yet  once  again  ! 

To  the  breezes  of  the  main  ; 
That  flag  for  which  our  father's  bled  unfurl ! 

Stand  firmly  to  your  guns, 

Columbia's  gallant  sons, 
And  their  thunders  on  the  vaunting  Briton  hurl. 

Nail  it  firmly  to  the  mast, 

And  amid  the  battles  blast 
Swear  that  there  shall  float  that  banner  of  renown, 

Till  the  icy  wand  of  death 

Shall  have  still'd  each  patriot  breath, 
Or  each  brow  is  bound  with  vict'ry's  laurel  crown. 

Swear  ye  all,  that  in  its  pride, 

O'er  the  ocean's  azure  tide, 
That  blood-bought  flag  our  patriot  father's  gave — 

Till  that  ocean  laves  no  more 

Fair  Columbia's  happy  shore, 
Unsullied  by  a  foeman's  hand  shall  wave. 

Look  ye  back  on  days  of  yore, 
When  unting'd  with  noble  gore, 

Not  a  billow  threw  its  spray  on  ocean's  strand, 
When  the  minions  of  a  king, 
Strove,  but  strove  in  vain,  to  fling 

Chains  forg'd  by  dark  oppression  round  our  land. 

Then  with  emulation  fir'd, 
With  the  patriot's  glow  inspir'd, 

No  base  thoughts  will  fill  your  hearts  amid  the  strife  ; 
Your  proud  motto  then  will  be, 
"  We  will  perish  or  live  free, 

Nobler  far  were  glorious  death  than  coward  life  !" 
5 


34  BUDS    AND    FLOWERS. 


Bright  from  the  orient  rose  the  orb  of  day, 

Spreading  o'er  Banca's  isles  his  rosiest  beams, 

And  the  blue  ocean  murmuring  on  its  course, 

Its  ev'ry  ripple  clad  in  rainbow  smiles,  was  ting'd 

With  the  transcendent  rays  of  beauteous  morn  ; 

While  zeph'rus,  from  the  shore  where  rosy  tints  were  blent 

With  the  green  foliage,  on  silken  pinions  bore 

The  sweetest  perfumes  ;  and  nature's  choristers, 

Sporting  mid  spicy  groves,  on  flower  and  tree,  - 

Join'd  with  the  azure  wave  in  chaunting  forth, 

In  tones  of  richest  melody,  the  requiem  of  the  brave. 

No  sable  pall,  nor  hearse  with  waving  plume, 
Nor  helm,  nor  shield,  was  there,  a  useless  pageantry, 
To  grace  our  comrade's  bier, — but  o'er  his  form 
Of  manly  mould  was  spread,  with  stripe  and  star, 
The  standard  of  the  free  ;  beneath  whose  folds, — 
To  win  the  laurell'd  coronet  of  the  biave, — 
He'd  stood  with  fearless  bosom  'mid  the  storm 
Of  battle,  when  rife  with  wreck  and  blood, 
Flow'd  on  its  course  the  dark,  unconscious  wave. 

Tho'  with  him  none  around  could  kindred  claim, 
Firm  bosoms  throbb'd,  and  brilliant  eyes  were  wet 
With  friendship's  tribute; — tears  of  deep  regret 
Cours'd  down  the  cheeks  of  men  of  iron  frame, 
Whose  hardy  bosoms  had  not  known  for  years 
The  wellings  of  those  springs  within  the  heart, 
Whose  waters — mantling  in  the  o'erflowing  eye, — 
Prove  that  the  kindliest  feelings  centre  there. 

The  muffled  drum  roll'd  out  in  notes  of  sadness, 
The  warrior's  funeral  dirge  ;  and  round. our  ship, — 


BUDS    AND    FLOWERS. 


Which  lay  like  the  "  Leviathan  in  slumber  on  the  deep," — 
Old  ocean's  gentle  billows  in  their  gladness  roll'd, 
As  launch'd  we  him,  of  her  proud  chivalry  the  flower, 
Silent  and  sorrowing  'neath  the  dark  blue  wave. 


O,  what  were  earth  with  all  its  lovely  bowers, 
Its  streams  of  silver  and  its  beds  of  flowers, 
Without  fond  woman  near  its  joys  to  share, 
And  add  her  smiles  unto  a  scene  so  fair? 

Joyless  would  be  man's  pilgrimage  thro'  life, 

Bereft  of  friends,  without  a  virtuous  wife 

. 
To  soothe  him,  when  Adversity  had  spread 

Her  gloomy  meshes  round  his  fever'd  head. 

Woman,  sweet,  gentle  being,  earth  though  fair, 
Full  fraught  as  'tis  with  beauties  rich  and  rare, 
Would  but  a  wilderness,  a  desert  waste  appear, 
Wert  thou,  its  loveliest,  sweetest  flower,  not  here. 


She  lay  upon  a  bank  of  flowers,  the  summer's  winds  were  straying 
Among  the  roses  at  her  feet  and  with  her  ringlets  playing; 
She  seem'd  a  being  not  of  earth, — a  seraph  from  the  throne 
Of  Him,  the  great  Omnipotent,  could  hold  such  charms  alone; 
Her  sylph-like  form,  her  snowy  brow,  her  liquid  lips  and  eyes, 
All  spoke  that  aught  so  beautiful  could  come  but  from  the  skies. 
No  vestal  bright,  in  days  of  yore,  within  the  heathen  Isis, 
Was  clad  in  beauties  half  so  rare  ;  her  breath  excel! 'd  the  spices 
That  on  the  zephyr's  silken  wings  are  borne  along  the  billow, 
And  spread  their  grateful  influence  round  some  drowsy  Sultan's  pillow. 


36  BUDS    AND    FLOWERS. 


Upon  his  phantom  steed,  with  sceptr'd  hand, 
The  grizzly  tyrant  sat  and  gave  command  ; 
The  peasant  and  the  prince, — the  rich  and  poor, 
The  Jew,  the  Turk,  the  dandy,  and  the  boor ; 
The  virtuous,  and  the  villain  steep'd  in  crime, 
The  wise  man,  and  the  fool  of  every  clime, 
The  heartless  coward,  and  the  rashly  brave, 
The  frowning  despot  and  the  servile  slave, 
The  deaf,  the  dumb,  the  bright  eyed  and  the  blind, 
The  good  and  bad,  both  man  and  womankind, 
The  proud,  the  meek,  the  homely,  and  the  fair, 
Were  all,  by  Death's  decree,  commingled  there. 

First,  War  appear'd  with  thousands  in  his  train 

Of  those,  by  flood  and  field,  in  battle  slain ; 

His  head  was  bare,  but  in  his  dexter  hand, 

With  fearful  strength  he  grasp'd  a  glittering  brand, — 

Its  jewell'd  hilt,  and  blade  besmear'd  with  gore  ; 

His  other  hand  a  plumeless  helmet  bore  ; — 

He  bow'd  to  Death,  and  then  file  after  file, 

Pass'd  on  beneath  the  tyrant's  ghastly  smile, 

A  horrid  sight ;  but  in  the  fleshless  face 

Of  that  grim  monster,  none  could  pity  trace. 

Kings,  emperors,  sultans,  satrapse,  and  schieks, 

Czars,  rajahs,  Caesars,  Incas,  and  caciques, 

Were,  with  the  hosts  by  them  to  battle  led, 

Before  the  mighty  conq'ror  marshalled  ; 

But  all  divested  was  each  noble  brow 

Of  majesty  and  glittering  cor'net  now, — 

No  war  notes  rung — no  silken  banners  spread 

Their  folds  above  this  gathering  of  the  dead  : 

No  falchion'd  hand,  nor  cuirass  guarded  breast, 

Nor  vizor'd  helm,  nor  shield,  nor  plumed  crest 


BUDS    AND    FLOWERS.  '37 

Was  there, — no  steed  impatient  for  the  fray, 

\Vith  clang  of  armour  join'd  his  furious  neigh; 

No  mail-clad  warrior  now  to  battle  rush'd — 

But  all  was  silence,  all  was  deeply  hush'd, 

As  was  old  Chaos  ere  the  Almighty  spoke, 

"  Let  there  be  light !"  and  on  the  darkness  broke 

Day's  glorious  splendour,  ushering  to  birth 

Blue  bosom'd  ocean,  boundless  heaven,  and  earth  ; — 

Death  grinn'd  a  hideous  smile,  he  laugh'd  aloud, 

When  to  their  tombs  had  pass'd  this  motley  crowd. 

-~:-^f^  Vfssgoii^yru^v^  ^J^^amrwC 
Foul  Pestilence,  with  her  fever'd  eye  and  brow, 
As  led  she  on  her  tens  of  thousands,  now 
In  servile  manner  lowly  bow'd  her  head, 
And  screaming  wildly  pointed  to  the  dead, — 
The  rich  and  poor,  the  cit,  and  savage  wild, 
The  hoary  headed,  and  the  lisping  child 
Of  every  colour,  black,  and  brown,  and  fair, 
With  haggard  features  congregated  there  ; — 
Death  smil'd  again,  wav'd  high  his  bony  hand, 
And  onward  pass'd  this  wan  and  hideous  band. 

Gaunt  Famine  next  appear'd  with  visage  wan, 
And  having  bent  the  knee  to  Death,  pass'd  on  ? 
Her  skinny  fingers  held  a  fleshless  bone, 
Which  ever  and  anon  with  plaintive  moan 
She  wildly  gnaw'd,  but  'twas  a  banquet  mean, 
For  naught  was  left  for  her  from  thence  to  glean  ; 
Her  bony  hands  with  talons  long  unpar'd, 
Were  like  a  vulture's  claws ;  and  madness  glar'd 
Out  from  her  dark  and  rolling  eye,  as  in  despair 
She  fiercely  pluck'd  her  locks  of  raven  hair, 
And  cast  them  from  her  with  a  fiendish  yell 
That  startled  e'en  the  howling  imps  of  hell. 
The  young  and  old  were  there  of  every  grade, 
The  grey  hair'd  matron,  and  the  modest  maid ; 
The  youthful  mother,  once  so  fair  and  mild, 
Who'd  fiercely  fed  upon  her  new-born  child, 


38  BUDS    AND    FLOWERS. 

And  savage  men,  who  for  a  time  had  fed, 
To  lengthen  life,  upon  the  famish'd  dead  ; 
The  wealthy  too,  but  riches  could  not  save, — 
The  king  and  beggar  fill'd  a  common  grave;  — 
.    These  pass'd  along,  and  smiling  Death  look'd  on 
Their  shadowy  figures,  and  their  features  wan. 

War,  Pestilence,  and  Famine,  each  could  boast 

Her  untold  thousands  ;  but  the  myriad  host 

That  now  in  crowded  ranks  advanced  score  by  score, 

Outnumber'd  e'en  the  sands  on  ocean's  shore  : — 

Intemperance  vile,  who  now  her  legions  led 

Before  the  tyrant  king,  and  bow'd  her  head, 

Was  clad  in  gorgeous  vesture,  and  her  hair 

Fell  down  in  ringlets  o'er  her  bosom  fair ; 

An  opal  rich  her  rosy  forehead  grac'd, 

A  zone  of  jewels  bright  around  her  waist 

Was  neatly  clasp'd,  and  bound  the  silken  vest 

Which  lay  in  graceful  folds  upon  her  breast ; 

She  bore  upon  her  hand  of  matchless  mould, 

A  teeming  goblet  form'd  of  burnish'd  gold  ; 

She  stood  a  shrine  at  which  the  "bond  and  free 

Had  blindly  bent  the  meek  and  willing  knee ; 

She  knew  her  power, — ah  !  well  her  pow'r  was  prov'd, 

As  there  her  countless  victims  onward  mov'd, 

And  grizzly  Death,  with  all  approving  smile, 

Delighted  gaz'd  upon  their  forms  the  while. 

Next,  callous  hearted  Murder  stalk'd  along, 
Bow'd  low  to  Death,  and  show'd  his  bloody  throng ; 
Arm'd  with  the  poison'd  cup  and  deadly  knife, 
His  all-polluted  hands  with  gore  was  rife; 
His  robe  was  spotted  o'er  with  crimson  stains, 
And  here  and  there  dark  gouts  of  blood  and  brains 
Hung  on  his  iron  limbs  and  frowning  brow, 
And  ne'er  look'd  fiend  of  hell  as  Murder  now  ; — 
His  victims  pass'd,  the  tyrant  smil'd  again, 
As  gaz'd  he  on  this  wild  and  bloody  train. 


BUDS    AND    FLOWERS.  39 

Next  enter' d  Suicide,  with  thoughtless  brow, 

And  having  to  the  tyrant  made  her  bow, 

Led  forth  her  legions, — what  a  sight  was  there! 

The  once  gay  youth,  endow'd  with  talents  rare, 

And  every  grade,  of  every  clime  and  hue, 

Pass'd  on,  and  clos'd  the  Tyrants'  Grand  Review. 


I  saw  her  in  her  cottage  home  in  joyous  infancy, 
A  thing  as  guileless  as  the  wave  upon  a  summer's  sea, 
Nor  noble,  nor  the  lowly  born,  nor  humble,  nor  the  proud, 
Could  boast  a  gem  so  witching  fair  as  Mellicent  St.  Cloud. 

Again  1  saw  her,  when  the  rays  of  girlhood's  planet  shed 
A  halo  of  unsullied  light  around  her  angel  head  ; 
The  fairest  of  the  fair  w.as  she,— but  few  were  so  endow'd 
With  beauty,  grace,  and  purity,  as  Mellicent  St.  Cloud. 

Years  rolled  away, — that  peerless  one  I  saw  yet  once  again, 
Around  her  heart  the  urchin  Love  had  thrown  his  golden  chain ; 
The  brightest  of  the  village  belles,  the  envy  of  the  crowd, 
A  thing  of  matchless  loveliness  was  Mellicent  St.  Cloud. 

Again  I  saw  her, — but,  alas  !  her  brow  how  pale  and  cold, 
Death's  icy  hand  had  withered  her  form  of  perfect  mould ; 
Upon  a  bier  with  flow'rets  strewn,  clad  in  her  winding  shroud, 
Lay,  shorn  of  all  her  loveliness,  poor  Mellicent  St.  Cloud. 

The  spoiler,  with  his  winning  smiles  and  words  of  flattery, 
Had  come,  and  thrown  a  lasting  stain  upon  her  purity  ; 
Before  the  chilling  blast  of  shame  her  lovely  head  was  bow'd, 
And  broken-hearted  sought  the  tomb,  fair  Mellicent  St.  Cloud. 


40  BUDS    AND    FLOWERS. 


OX     THE     DEATH     OF     WILLIAM     HENHT     HARRISON 

He  needs  no  gorgeous  cavalcade, 

He  wants  no  garlands  now, 
For  Death  his  icy  hand  hath  laid 

Upon  the  conq'ror's  brow ; 
But  bring  the  cerements  of  the  tomb, 
The  sable  hearse,  the  nodding  plume, 
And  let  Columbia's  banner  wave 
Its  folds  above  the  hero's  grave, 
Who  bore  that  banner  in  its  pride, 
By  Wabash's  stream  and  Erie's  tide, 
When  fell  the  day  God's  ruddy  glow 
In  beauty  on  the  conquer'd  foe  ; 
'Tis  meet  so  proud  a  pall  should  grace 
The  dauntless  hero's  resting  place. 


What  is't  that  sweetens  life  and  cheers 
Man's  bosom  when  with  grief  opprest, 

Dispels  its  varied  doubts  and  fears, 
And  lulls  its  harrowing  cares  to  rest  ? 

'Tis  woman's  love :  around  her  heart 
The  warmest,  kindliest  feelings  glow ; 

'Tis  her's  to  soothe  Affliction's  smart, 
Beguile  the  mourner  of  his  woe, 

And  with  her  love,  pure,  fervid,  deep, 
Release  the  sorrow  burthen'd  soul 
From  gloomy  Misery's  dark  control, 

And  bid  its  every  trouble  sleep. 


BUDS    AND    FLOWERS.  41 


,.";•-  vi.  "  —  -  >•}./;;  J'4* 

Tell  me  not  of  pleasures  flowing 

From  the  rosy  goblet,  glowing 
With  a  bane,  though  bright  it  be, 
Deadlier  than  the  upas  tree  ; 

It  has  scath'd  the  brightest  blossoms, 
Doom'd  to  shame  the  proudest  bosoms, 
Dimm'd  the  shine  of  Love's  pure  heaven, 
Friendship's  brilliant  fetters  riven, 
Blighted  youth's  fond  hopes  forever,— 
Tell  me  not,  —  oh,  never,  never 

Tell  me  of  the  pleasures  flowing 
From  the  rosy  goblet,  glowing 
With  a  bane,  though  bright  it  be, 

Deadlier  than  the  upas  tree. 
Vjtu 
Ere  my  youth  had  pass'd  away, 

Ere  the  dawn  of  manhood's  day, 

Whelmed  was  this  bosom's  pride 

In  the  goblet's  damning  pride  ; 

Scorn  will  haunt  my  steps  forever,  — 

Tell  me  not,—  oh,  never,  never 

Tell  me  of  the  pleasures  flowing, 
From  the  rosy  goblet,  glowing 
With  a  bane,  though  bright  it  be,,^,.^ 
Deadlier  than  the  upas  tree. 

Friends,  the  kindest,  smil'd  upon  me, 

Ere  the  beaming  goblet  won  me, 

And  beneath  its  wild  control, 

Held  in  fiery  chains  my  soul  ; 

Last  to  me  those  friends  forever,  — 

Tell  me  not,  —  oh,  never,  never 

Tell  me  of  the  pleasures  flowing 
From  the  rosy  goblet,  glowing 
With  a  bane,  though  bright  it  be, 
Deadlier  than  the  upas  tree. 
6 


4$  B  U  D  S    A  N  D    F  L  O  W  K  K  S  . 

Better  quaff  the  lava  rushing, 
With  infernal  fires  flushing, 
Down  the  red  volcano's  side, 
Than  the  goblet's  blasting  tide ; 
It  will  stain  the  soul  forever ; — 
Tell  me  not, — oh,  never,  never 

Tell  me  of  the  pleasures  flowing 
From  the  rosy  goblet,  glowing 
With  a  bane,  though  bright  it  be, 
Deadlier  than  the  upas  tree. 


Come  to  me,  lov'd  one  !  when  the  roseate  hue, 
Thrown  by  the  day  God  o'er  yon  boundless  blue, 
Hath  pass'd  away,  and  twilight's  wavy  shade 
Hath  fall'n  on  bush  and  bower,  hill  and  glade  ; 
When  birds  have  hush'd  their  thrilling  melody, 
On  mount  and  dell,  and  flower  and  forest  tree, 
And  myriad  stars,  as  brilliant  as  thine  eyes, 
Their  rays  are  spreading  o'er  the  evening  skies, 
And  Luna  throws  her  beams  of  silver  light, 
Around  the  gem-encrusted  robe  of  night. 

Come  to  me,  lov'd  one  !  thou  wilt  not  forget 
The  vine-clad  bower  where  we  oft  have  met, 
The  streamlet  murmuring  o'er  its  pebbly  bed, 
The  shady  grove  with  velvet  verdure  spread  ; 
'Tis  there  that  I  would  say  adieu  to  thee, 
Whom  1  have  lov'd  so  long  and  ardently, — 
'Tis  there,  when  silence  reigns,  that  I  would  tell 
My  hopes  and  fears,  and  bid  a  long  farewell 
To  thee,  whose  every  pulse  I'm  sure  is  mine, 
As  well  thou  knowest,  all  I  bear  are  thine. 

a 


BUDS    A  ND    FLOWERS. 

Come  to  me,  lov'cl  one  !  and  we  once  again 

Will  trend  the  flowery  hill,  the  grassy  plain, 

And,  as  along  the  gurgling  brook  we  rove, 

Will  each  to  each  recount  our  tale  of  love  ; 

And  there,  beneath  3^00  cloudless  canopy, 

Will  I  once  more,  upon  my  bended  knee, 

Swear  by  the  silent  night's  enamell'd  brow,     :mific*l| 

That  thou,  my  lov'd  and  only  one,  that  thou 

Shalt,  first  of  all,  within  this  bosom  dwell 

Until  we  meet  again,  then  bid  farewell. 


•rgttrfi--  -       .-..-..,-.,.._  -    ; 

tfifcoft  'n  _,7K>!  ip 

$  Stisy  'i*s.;       r»    *  .-.*o»f  iff//' 

1*3  It  W  I*   XP  <>     . 

ON    THE    CAPTURE    ANI)    BURNING    OF    Q.UAI.I.AH    BATTOO,     BT    THE    CREW    OF    THE 
UNITED    STATES  SHIP    POTOMAC,  ON    THE    6TH    OF   FEBRUARY,  1832. 


Slowly  the  sun  sought  his  watery  pillow, 

Throwing  his  tresses  of  gold  o'er  the  wave  ; 
Lightly  the  zephyr  danced  over  the  billow, 
Gracefully  waving  the  flag  of  the  brave. 
Through  ocean's  azure  bed, 
Swiftly  our  vessel  sped,  :>T 

Wreathing  her  erest  with  a  chaplet  of  snow  ;    .  &nw'%  ~ 
SfarHtr       Brightly  around  her  bowy.,fff/  /JoM  '  J«IT  A 

White  as  a  maiden's  brow, 
Sparkled  the  spray  'neath  the  sun's  ruddy  glow. 

Bold  hearts  and  true  for  the  melee  were  ready  ; 

Moon-beams  were  dancing  on  musket  and  glaive  ; 
Our  watch-word  was  whisper'd:  "  Ho  1  steady  boys,  steady  !" 
As  our  cutters  like  lightning  flew  over  the  wave. 

Luna  spread  her  silver  light, 

Far  o'er  the  face  of  night, 
Guiding  to  glory  the  brave  and  the  free  ; 

O'er  Ophir's  em'rald  head, 

Morning's  first  beams  were  shed, 
And  fell  far  and  fair  on  the  murmuring  sea. 


44  B  U  D  S    A  N  1)    F  I,  O  \V  E  R  S  . 

Loudly  the  surf  its  rude  melody  chaunted, 
Rearing  its  foam  crested  billows  on  high, 

While  landed  in  silence,  each  bosom  undaunted, 
The  tars  of  Columbia,  to  conquer  or  die. 

Bold  hearts  and  true  were  there, — 
Hearts,  born  the  fight  to  dare, 

Scorning  the  life  of  the  coward  and  slave, 
Sought  mid  the  battle's  din, 
Fame's  brilliant  wreath  to  win, 

Or,  cover'd  with  glory,  a  warrior's  grave. 

Unconscious  of  danger  the  proud  foe  were  dreaming, 

Of  foray  by  field,  and  of  slaughter  by  flood, 
While  o'er  them  the  sword  of  th'  Avenger  was  gleaming, 
Awaiting  the  signal  to  revel  in  blood. 
Shrill  blew  the  clarion  then  ; 
Many  a  hill  and  glen 

Echo'd  its  notes  from  their  bosoms  of  green  ; 
Fierce  rose  the  savage  yell, 
Thickly  the  foemen  fell, 
Carnage  was  rife  o'er  that  beautiful  scene, 

<  »>" 
Red  roll'd  the  flames  thro'  the  blue  dome  of  heaven, 

Tinging  the  foliage  of  mountain  and  dell ; 
Fierce  fought  the  foe  till  their  ramparts  were  riven, 
And  Mohammed's  banner,  the  proud  crescent  fell. 
Then  wav'd  our  stripes  and  stars, — 
Then  cheer'd  Columbia's  tars  ; — 
Victory  smiles  on  the  brave  and  the  free, — 
Roll  out  the  scroll  of  fame, 
Write  with  a  pen  of  flame, 
Triumphant  again  are  the  sons  of  the  sea. 


. 

Oh  for  those  sunny  days  again, 

When  life's  young  spring  was  in  its  prime  ! 


B  U  I)  S    A  N  ))    F  L  0  W  E  R  3  .  45 

-v-C    .aT-lr 


Dark  was  the  morn,  —  with  bleeding  feet, 
O'er  fields  of  ice,  through  snow  and  sleet, 

A  U          1  1,'J  t  f*» 

A  spartan  band  push  d  on  to  meet 

Their  mercenary  enemy. 
The  ice-bound  Delaware  was  cross'  d, 
And  on  its  banks,  'mid  snow  and  frost, 
By  winter's  tempests  wildly  toss'd,  -.  ^M  yJJ 

Roll'd  out  the  flag  of  liberty. 

Beneath  its  silken  folds,  the  brave 
Had  sworn  to  fill  a  soldier's  grave, 
Or,  boldly  fighting,  shield  and  save 

Their  homes  from  British  tyranny. 
There,  side  by  side,  both  sire  and  son, 
Commanded  by  our  Washington, 
March  briskly  onward  'neath  the  dun 

Of  heaven's  stormy  canopy. 

The  foe  are  sleeping,  and  in  dreams,  — 
Beneath  the  day  God's  rosy  beams,  — 
They  wander  near  the  cooling  streams 

Of  their  own  native  land  ; 
Their  wives  and  mothers  far  away, 
Their  aged  sires  and  children  gay, 
And  scenes  betov'd,  in  bright  array 

On  memory's  tablets  stand. 

These  sweet  illusions  cannot  last  : 
Hark  !  even  now  the  trumpet's  blast, 
And  tramp  of  armed  warriors  fast 

The  death-like  silence  break. 
They  come  !  they  come  !  that  patriot  band 
Is  on  them  now,  with  deadly  brand, 
And  fearless  heart  and  steady  hand, 

For  freedom  is  the  stake. 


48  BUDS    AND    FLOWERS. 

Some,  springing  from  their  beds,  are  met 
With  glittering  glaive  and  bayonet, 
And  fight,  on  every  side  beset, 

A  soldier's  grave  to  win  ; 
While  here  a  few  who  dare  not  die, 

With  coward  hearts  for  mercy  cry, 

,  „     „ 
Or,  struck  with  terror,  wildly  fly 

1  o   scape  the  battle  s  dm. 

On  milk-white  steed,  with  God-like  form, 
Where  thickest  falls  the  battle's  storm, — 
By  powers  above  preserved  from  harm, — 

Our  Washington  we  see'; 
Thro'  smoke  and  flame,  with  flashing  glaive, 
Now  speeds  the  bravest  of  the  brave, 
With  stalwart  arm  outstretch'd  to  save 

The  conquer' d  enemy, 
i  4 

The  fight  is  o'er,  the  field  is  won, 
And  many  a  form  the  last  day's  sun, 
In  life  its  rays  had  thrown  upon, 

Now  lies  in  Death's  embrace  ; 
Or  with  the  warm  blood  trickling  slow 
From  bullet  wound,  or  deadly  blow, 
Writhes  painfully  on  bed  of  snow, 

As  life  now  ebbs  apace. 

The  mother's  woe,— ah  !  who  may  tell, 
As  tolls  the  mournful  funeral  knell, 
For  those  who  bravely  fought  and  fell 

On  Trenton's  snowy  plains ; — 
Her  manly  boy  mayhap  is  here, 
With  none  to  drop  Affection's  tear 
Above  his  rude  and  bloody  bier, 

Or  soothe  his  dying  pains. 

The  Delaware  o'er  its  rocky  bed, 

01     11      •  I-  •  f^       J       A 

Shall  sing  the  requiem  of  the  dead  ; 
The  verdant  turf  above  them  spread, 

Their  cenotaph  shall  be  ; 


B  U  D  S    A  N  D    F  L  O  W  K  R  S  .  47 

And  myriad  thousands  yet  unborn,          - 
Shall  sing  the  glories  of  that  morn, 
When  freedom's  phalanx  pluck'd  a  thorn 

From  out  the  wreath  of  liberty.     ,     •        ' 


Were  you  ever  in  love,  gentle  reader  ?  If  not, 

And  you  wish  to  keep  clear  of  that  passion,  beware 

Of  a  city,  —  on  earth  the  most  beautiful  spot,  —  • 

Where  the  men  are  half  gods,  and  the  women  as  fair 

As  that  goddess  of  yore,  whom  'tis  said  was  sea-born, 

Or  the  nymphs  that  old  ocean's  bright  chambers  adorn. 

r/   I 

Fairy  forms,  velvet  cheeks,  rosy  lips,  brilliant  eyes, 

Snowy  hands,  placid  brows,  pearly  teeth,  matchless  feet, 

Voices  bland  as  the  airs  of  an  April's  blue  skies, 

Let  you  turn  where  you  may,  you  are  certain  to  meet 

In  that  city  where  all  is  as  fair  to  the  sight, 

J  O 

As  the  stars  on  the  robe  of  a  clear  summer's  night. 

•i^tu  ct'fi  ru«fT 
Arm  yourself  as  you  may,  yet  you  cannot  escape 

That  saucy  young  rogue,  laughing  Cupid,  whose  darts 

•  t     *?  *l 

Fly  around  you  on  every  hand,  in  the  shape 

Of  such  eyes  as  must  pierce  the  most  stoical  hearts. 
But  one  day  in  a  city  with  beauties  so  rife, 
By  the  mother  of  Cupid,  were  worth  a  whole  life.      ajiT 


, 

The  metropolis  proud  of  the  despotic  RussK7;  Vnr,fm  \O 

France's  pride,  and  that  smoke  blacken'd  place  on  the  Thames, 
With  the  once  queenly  Lima,  'bout  which  such  a  fuss 

Has  been  made  by  the  trav'ller,  —  with  others,  whose  names 
It  were  useless  to  mention,  I've  seen,  and  will  swear 
They,  with  that  which  I  sing  of,  in  nought  can  compare. 


18  BUDS    AND    FLOWERS. 

Would  you  know  where  that  place  is,  so  far  above  all       ' : 
That  we  read  of  in  story,  for  fair  ones,  and  men, 

Sure  the  modern  Apollo's  of  this  spheric  ball, 
I  will  tell  you,  my  friend,  'tis  the  city  of  Penn, 

That  home  of  the  fairest,  the  bravest,  and  best, 

That  spot  of  all  spots  'neath  the  sun  the  most  blest. 


TO    THK    WKMOlir    OF    LIEUT.    S.    B.    S.,    OF    1'KlXCtTOS,    *  .  J. 

' 

Green  rise  the  velvet  turf  above  the  grave,         .   ..^Jujb  «^ 
Where  rest  the  ashes  of  the  seaman's  pride  ;  If  ^0 

I  would  his  sepulchre  had  been  the  wave, 
Where  navies  in  embattled  beauty  ride. 

He  should  have  died,  —  O,  yes,  he  should  have  died 
Upon  the  wave,  where  he  so  lov'd  to  be, 

*  IbpL, 

Where  freedom's  banner  floats  in  all  its  pride,  ;. 

Above  the  forms  of  ocean's  chivalry.  .^  ^ 

Then  iron  men,  a  rough  but  generous  crew, 

Had  launch'd  his  manly  form  beneath  the  wave  ; 

His  place  of  rest  had  been  the  waste  of  blue, 
His  noblest  cenotaph  some  coral  cave. 

His  was  the  cheek  that  never  blanch'd  before 

The  deepest  thunders  of  the  howling  gale, 
When  gallant  ships  were  sinking  'mid  the  roar 

Of  ocean's  waters,  and  the  brave  grew  pale. 

'"' 


»w        •.  . 

But  this  is  classic  ground  where  rests  his  head, 

Here  patriot's  fought,  —  here  gallant  Mercer  fell  ; 
'Mid  Princeton's  smiling  scenes  his  spirit  fled; 

Here  mourning  friends  receiv'd  his  last  farewell.          :;!T 


BUDS    AND    FLOWERS.  49 


************ 


Thou  knowest,  lov'd  and  dearest,  I  have  oft, 

In  lowly  adoration,  as  at  some  holy  shrine, 
Knelt  at  thy  feet,  and  press'd  thy  fingers  soft, 

And  sworn  that  thou  wert  lovely, — nay,  divine. 
Ah  !  well,  too  well,  methinks,  thou  knowest  too, 

That  life  to  me  were  nought  if  thou  should'st  turn 
Away  from  me  those  orbs  of  brilliant  blue, 

And  in  thy  tyranny  my  humble  prayers  spurn. 

Tongue  may  not  tell  how  beautiful  thou  art ; 

'Twere  'bove  the  fairest  limner's  skill  to  trace 
Thy  perfect  features  ;  but  I  fear  thy  heart 

Hath  not  its  index  in  thy  lovely  face. 
Upon  thy  snowy  brow  sits  Innocence  express'd, 

And  Virtue  beams  in  thy  transcendent  eyes ; 
Upon  thy  glowing  lips  Love  stands  confess'd, 

And  sweet  Benevolence  in  all  thy  features  lies, 

How  well,  how  ardently,  I've  loved  thee, 

Thou  dearest,  fairest,  thou  alone  can'st  say, 
Is  it  then,  bright  one,  is  it  thus  to  be 

Forever  ;  must  I  longer  kneel  and  pray 
For  one  sweet  word,  from  her  I've  lov'd  more 

Than  woman  fair,  upon  this  smiling  earth, 
By  less  than  God,  was  ever  lov'd  before, 

Howe'er  exalted  may  have  been  her  worth  ? 


A  beam  of  pleasure  lit  his  eye, 

A  flush  was  on  his  brow, 
While  grateful  thousands  rais'd  on  high 

The  shout  of  triumph  now  ; 
The  conqueror  felt  his  bosom  glow, 
With  pulses  such  as  few  may  know. 
7 


50  BUDS    AND    F  LOWERS. 


The  gates  of  day  are  backward  roll'd, 
Upon  each  hinge  of  burning  gold  ; 
And  Sol,  as  rides  he  up  the  sky, 

From  his  wing'd  chariot,  drawn 
By  steeds  in  sheen  capar  ison, 

Dispels  the  sombre  shades  of  dawn, 
All  Nature  painting  gorgeously. 
Underneath  his  beamy  crown, 

Over  shoulders  broad  and  fair, 
Tress  on  tress,  in  brilliance  down, 

Falls  in  grace  his  amber  hair, 
Lighting  the  pellucid  spray, 

Playing  ocean's  bosom  o'er, 
And  the  wave  that  melts  away 
On  its  silver  sanded  shore. 
With  lavish  hand, 
O'er  all  the  land, — 
On  the  mountain  and  the  hill, 
On  the  fountain  and  the  rill, 
On  the  flowers  that  exhale 
Odours  on  the  passing  gale, 
Over  grove,  and  grain,  and  mead, — 
Are  his  beauteous  colours  spread. 


The  stars  may  pale,  the  moon  may  fail 

To  rear  her  silver  crest ; 
The  sun  may  pour  his  rays  no  more 

Along  the  purpling  west ; 
The  robe  of  night,  with  jewels  bright, 

No  more  may  glad  the  eye, 


BUDS    AND    FLOWERS. 

Nor  blushing  day,  in  bright  array, 

Ride  up  the  orient  sky  ; — 
On  early  wing,  the  lark  may  sing 

His  matin  song  no  more  ; 
Nor  ocean's  wave  in  beauty  lave 

Its  silver  sanded  shore  ; 
The  smiling  plain  may  ne'er  again 

Its  vernal  tints  unfold  ; 
Nor  Flora's  brow  be  twined  as  now, 

With  wreathes  of  wavy  gold  : 
But  ever  shall  my  memory, 

My  brightest,  fairest  one, 
Be  hallo w'd  by  a  thought  of  thee, 

Whom  I  have  lov'd  alone. 


OX    THE    DEATH    OF    CAPTAIN*    JAMES    LAWRENCE,  U.    S.    If. 

Roll,  roll,  the  muffled  drum, 

Let  the  flag  of  freedom  wave, 
While  stranger  hands  his  manly  form,  . 
Lay  in  a  warrior's  grave. 

The  sight  of  Albion's  ruddy  cross, 
Shall  glad  his  heart  no  more  ; ' 

That  noble  heart  is  mould'ring  now, 
Upon  the  foeman's  shore. 

As  dauntless  sailors  love  to  die, 
'Mid  wreck,  and  flame,  and  blood, 

Our  hero  met  a  glorious  death, 
Upon  the  ocean  flood. 

His  dying  words,  to  those  who  roam 
The"  blue  and  laughing  sea, — 

"  My  heroes  !  don't  give  up  the  ship  !'•* 
A  watchword  long  will  be. 


52  BUDS    AND    FLOWERS. 

Roll,  roll  the  muffled  drum, 
Our  Lawrence  is  no  more ; 

His  manly  form  is  mould' ring  now 
Upon  the  foeman's  shore. 


Why  weep'st  thou,  fair  mother?  why  throbs  thy  young  heart, 
With  such  pulses  alone  as  may  sorrow  impart? 
What  is  it  that  causes  that  bosom's  deep  sigh 
That  shade  on  thy  brow,  and  that  tear  in  thine  eye  ? 

Why  weep'st  thou,  fair  mother?  say,  why  dost  thou  mourn  ? 
Why  flow  thy  dark  tresses  dishevell'd  and  lorn? 
Why  courses  the  tear  drop  adown  thy  soft  cheek  ? 
What  grief  fills  thy  bosom  the  tongue  may  not  speak  ? 

Why  weep'st  thou,  fair  mother  ?  dost  grieve  that  thy  boy, 
Has  been  call'd  by  his  God  to  the  regions  of  joy, 
From  this  life's  rugged  highway,  its  cares,  and  its  wiles, 
To  exist  in  the  light  of  his  Saviour's  sweet  smiles  ? 

Why  weep'st  thou,  fair  mother?  tho'  down  to  the  tomb, 
Thy  first  born  hatli  gone  in  the  pride  of  his  bloom  ; 
His  soul,  in  the  robe  of  sweet  innocence  drest, 
Hath  ascended  to  joy  in  the  realms  of  the  blest. 

Why  weep'st  thou,  fair  mother?  thy  lov'd  one  e'en  now, 
With  a  cherub's  bright  halo  encircling  his  brow, 
Unites  in  a  song  with  the  blest,  near  the  throne 
Of  a  king,  'neath  whose  sceptre  no  sorrows  are  known. 

Then  weep  not,  fair  mother  !  'twere  better  to  part, 
In  his  halcyon  days,  with  the  pride  of  thy  heart, 
Than  to  see  him  a  wreck  on  the  world's  troubled  sea,— 
Of  its  tempests  the  sport,  and  a  sorrow  to  thee. 


BUDS    AND    FLOWERS.  53 


Come,  gentle  sirs,  come  buy 

My  flowers  rich  and  rare  ; 
Here  are  those  of  every  dye, 

Modest  presents  for  the  fair. 

Here  are  roses,  red  and  white ; 

Lovely  lilies  geram'd  with  dew  ; 
Here  are  tulips  all  so  bright, 

And  sweet  violets  of  blue. 

Here  is  "  heart's  ease"  for  the  swain 
Who  has  felt  his  passions  slighted  ; 

Who  has  lov'd,  and  lov'd  in  vain, 
And  whose  fondest  hopes  are  blighted. 

Here's  the  marigold  that  turns, 
In  its  mute  and  matchless  love, 

On  the  day  god  while  he  burns 
In  yon  boundless  blue  above. 

Thus  sweetly  sang  the  flower  girl ; 

But  few  were  fair  as  she ; 
Her  neck  was  whiter  than  the  pearl 

Beneath  the  Indian  sea. 

'Twas  form'd  in  nature's  fairest  mould, 

And  ev'ry  golden  curl 
That  o'er  its  fair  proportions  roll'd, 

Were  ransom  for  an  earl. 

As  clear,  as  bright,  as  purely  blue, 

As  is  the  autumn's  sky, 
From  'neath  its  lash  of  raven  hue, 

Shone  out  her  sun-bright  eye. 


54  BUDS    AND    FLOWERS. 

The  dazzling  halls  of  fairy  land  can  boast  of -nought  so  fair, 
As  was  that  pearl,  the  flower  girl,  with  locks  of  golden  hair, 
And  eyes  that  sparkled  like  the  wave  upon  a  moon-lit  sea; 
Its  queen  herself,  the  tiny  elf,  was  not  so  fair  as  she. 

Who  would  not  love  the  flower  girl,  so  beautiful  and  bright, 
With  form  so  fair  and  features  rare,  and  step  as  aether  light  ? 
That  snarling  dog  Diogenese  had  felt  his  bosom  glow, 
Could  he  have  seen  her  eye  so  sheen  and  neck  of  purest  snow. 


Thou  art  gone !  but  why  deplore  thee  ? 

Tears  and  sighs  were  worse  than  vain  ; 
Sorrows  pangs  will  not  restore  thee 

To  our  loving  arms  again ; 
Would  they,  it  were  sin  to  call  thee 

From  thy  joyous  home  above, 
Where  the  arms  of  seraph's  thrall  thee, 

With  a  more  than  earthly  love. 

Thou  art  gone ;  but  should  the  bosom 
Swell  with  grief  when  earthly  flowers 

In  the  bud  are  scath'd,  to  blossom 

•  Brighter  in  celestial  bowers  ? 

Nay,  it  were  a  blissful  feeling 

That  the  lov'd  and  lost  have  place, 

With  the  spotless  spirits  kneeling, 
Joyful,  round  the  throne  of  grace. 

Thou  art  gone ;  but  ties  must  sever ; — 

Often  are  we  call'd  to  part, 
By  Death's  stern  decree,  forever, 

With  the  lov'd  and  high  of  heart ; 
And  how  happier  the  condition 

Of  the  plants  that  wither  here, 
But  to  rise  to  bright  fruition, 

In  a  higher,  nobler  sphere. 


BUDSAND    FLOWER'S.  55 

Thou  art  gone ;  and  she  who  bore  thee, 

Nor  thy  aged  sire  may  ne'er 
Wet  the  turf  that  rises  o'er  thee, 

With  affection's  brilliant  tear ; 
But  how  sweet  the  solace  given.; 

Soothing  ev'ry  pulse  of  pain,— 
That,  to  part  no  more,  in  heaven, 

They  and  thou  shall  meet  again. 

Thou  art  gone  ;  may  lightly  o'er  thee 

Wave  the  grass  and  flowers  that  bloom, 
Cherish'd  by  the  friends  that  bore  thee, 

Sorrowing,  to  an  early  tomb. 
H*****,  there  were  few  who  peer'd  thee, 

And  thy  virtues  are  enshrin'd, —  \~'v*i 

Virtues  which  to  all  endear'd  thee, 

In  the  hearts  thou'st  left  behind.     • 


How  much  of  good,  how  much  of  ill  is  spread 

Around  this  charming  place,  where'er  we  tread  ; 

How  much  of  wealth  and  poverty  we  see, 

How  much  of  wrong  and  squalid  misery  ; 

Here  stands  a  beggar,  there  a  lady  fair, — 

The  first  in  rags,  the  last  in  jewels  rare. 

Some  starve,  or  force  a  livelihood  by  stealth, 

While  others  unconcern'd  may  roll  in  wealth, 

And  sport  their  tinsell'd  robes,  and  pearls  of  price,— 

Strong  proofs  our  city's  not  a  Paradise. 

Here  holy  temples  rear  their  lofty  towers, — 
There  lies  a  field  of  dead  bestrewn  with  flowers; 
Here  is  an  office  where  they  lives  insure, — 
There,  brazen  quacks,  with  nostrums  known  to  cure; 
The  one  insures  your  life  with  grey  goose  quill, 
The  other  takes  it  with  a  poisonous  pill. 


BUBS    AND    FLOWERS. 

Here,  pockets  empty,  and  their  debts  unpaid, — 
Our  public  squares  and  paves  promenade, 
In  broad-cloth  coats  and  silken  pantaloons, — 
Things  less  like  men  than  Afric's  cape  babboons ; 
There  stands  a  gloomy  prison  fill'd  with  vice, — 
More  proofs  our  city's  not  a  Paradise. 

Here  stands  a  court-house,  where,  at  any  time, 

The  eye  may  rest  upon  the  tools  of  crime, 

And  see  blind  Justice, — nay,  she  is  not  blind, 

Not  here,  at  least, — in  galling  fetters  bind 

The  light  offence,  if,  sad  perchance,  it  be 

Clad  in  the  garb  of  chilling  poverty  ; 

While  murder,  arson,  incest,  treason,  rape, 

Display  the  mighty  dollar  and  escape  ; — 

Here  Teague  O'Mull  got  five  years  for  a  riot, 

While  three  were  all  they  gave  to  Dr.  Dyott ; 

And  here,  that  English  radical,  with  breast, 

As  foul  and  foetid  as  a  harpy's  nest, — 

That  fiend  in  human  shape, — the  murderer  Wood, 

His  hands  imbrued  in  a  daughter's  blood, 

Held  up  the  dollar  to  corruption's  view, 

And  cheated  Ketch,  the  hang-man,  of  his  due. 

But  rioting  is  worse,  I  must  confess, 

Than  swindling  widows  and  the  fatherless, — 

Or,  in  a  furious  drunken  fit,  to  slaughter 

An  amiable,  and  all-accomplished  daughter; — 

As  Paddy  often  swears,  "  by  this  and  that," 

Those  rascals  each  deserved  a  hemp  cravat. 

Here,  after  swearing  oaths,  not  loud  but  deep, 

The  wooden-headed  jurors  fall  asleep, 

And  childless  judges  have  the  power  to  doom 

The  friendless  prisoner  to  a  living  tomb. 

Be  sharp,  or  they'll  convict  you  in  a  trice, — 

More  proofs  our  city's  not  a  Paradise. 

Here  stands  a  theatre,  where  one  may  see 
Mock  kings  and  queens  in  their  tinselry  ; 


BUDS    AND    FLOWERS. 

And  fair,  frail  woman,  with  her  wanton  wiles, 
Her  painted  features  clad  in  winning  smiles, 
And  person  deck'd  with  splendid  drapery, 
In  the  third  row  and  punch-rooms  one  may  see. 
And  here,  too,  may  be  seen  the  fair  Celeste, 

Who  cuts  her  graceful  pigeon-wings  half  drest ; 

*  *  *  #  *  * 

Also,  another  jade,  not  quite  half  clad, 
About  whose  pirouettes  the  world  is  mad, — 
The  famous  Fanny  Ellsler,  whom  the  asses 
That  sport  mustachios  and  quizzing  glasses, 
Have  call'd  divine,  against  the  standard  rules 
By  which  we  judge  of  beauty, — O,  the  fools  ! 
Such  scenes  as  these,  'tis  true,  are  very  nice, 
But  still  our  city's  not  a  Paradise. 

Here  stands  a  grog  shop, — there  a  grand  hotel, 
Both  flaming  panders  to  a  common  hell; — 
At  one  the  almost  ruined  drunkard  deals, 
Then  homeward  to  his  starving  fam'ly  reels ; 
And  here,  the  bloated  wretch  with  tatter'd  coat, 
Comes  trembling  in  to  spend  his  hard-earned  groat, — 
His  senses  steep'd  in  scorching  alcohol, 
His  soul  immortal  in  the  devil's  thrall. 
The  other  boasts  a  custom  more  genteel : 
Here  men  of  wealth  and  daring  sportsmen  deal ; 
The  merchant  with  his  pockets  amply  stor'd, 
In  search  of  city  goods,  here  takes  his  board ; 
Here  old  and  young  we  see  of  all  religions, 
With  gamblers,  neatly  clad,  in  search  of  pigeons, 
And  many  a  dashing  blade,  and  mincing  dandy, 
Comes  here  to  dine  and  sip  his  wine  and  brandy. 
Grog  shops  and  grand  hotels  are  schools  of  vice, 
More  proofs  our  city's  not  a  Paradise. 

Here  vile  Intemperance,  with  rosy  lip, 
Beckons  the  unsuspecting  youth  to  sip 
The  fount  where  base-born  Dissipation  stands, — *-. 
A  goblet  rich  in  her  polluted  hands, — 
8 


58  BUDS    AND    FLOWERS. 

Calling  the  young  and  old,  the  bad  and  good, 
To  taste  the  waters  of  a  poison'd  flood  ; — 
Here  Sensuality,  with  shameless  cheek, 
Displays  her  painted  charms  to  win  the  weak; — • 
Here  Wisdom,  Prudence,  Love,  and  Chastity, 
Are  overwhelm'd  in  Passion's  burning  sea  ; 
And  fair-brow'd  Honesty  has  found  a  grave, 
Where  man  to  gold  is  now  the  willing  slave, 
From  whom,  when  once  the  light  of  reason's  gone, 
Dark  brow'd  Despair  stalks  in  with  visage  wan, 
Or  fearful  Madness  o'er  his  feelings  flings 
The  gloomy  shadows  of  her  sable  wings. 
Now  tell  me  if  this  city,  with  its  vice, 
Can 'be  by  you  esteem'd  a  Paradise. 


OU  THE  LOSS  OF  THE  UNITED  STATES  SLOOP  HORNET, 

Supposed  to  have  Foundered  in  the  Gulf  of  Mexico,  in  the  Fall  of  1829. 

Let  a  seaman  tell  the  tale 

How  a  vessel  of  renown, 
When  howl'd  the  fearful  gale, 

With  her  gallant  crew  went  down 
'Neath  the  billow,  oflFTampico's  sandy  shore  ; 
'Twas  riot  mid  the  battle's  din, 

When  wreck  and  blood  were  rife, 
And  when  heroes  seek  to  win 

Fadeless  laurels  in  the  strife, 
And  the  tyrant  Death,  stalks  surfeited  with  gore. 

'Tis  a  tale  of  other  days, 

'Tis  no  fiction  of  the  brain  ; 
'Tis  a  theme  of  myriad  lays, 

That  shall  grace  my  humble  strain  ; 


BUDS    AND    FLOWERS.  59 

'Tis  no  story  drawn  from  the  legendary  lore  ; 
'Tis  the  fate  of  those  who  sleep 

On  the  ocean's  coral  bed, 
Where  shall  rest  they  till  its  deep, 

And  the  earth  give  up  their  dead, 
And  old  Time  .shall  wing  his  rapid  flight  no  more. 

Lurid  red  the  orb  of  day 

Sank  to  rest  beneath  the  wave, 
And  its  last,  departing  ray 

Threw  its  light  upon  the  brave, 
As  they  reef 'd  the  pliant  canvass  in  the  storm  ; 
Undaunt'd  glow'd  each  breast, 

While  the  tempest  gather'd  wrath, 
And  the  wave  with  hoary  crest, 

Wildly  rushing  round  their  path, 
Threw  its  spray  on  noble  brow  and  manly  form. 

Fisrce,  still  fiercer  grew  the  blast ; 
The  sails  to  shreds  were  riven, 
And  shatter'd  ev'ry  mast, 

The  thunder-bolts  of  heaven ; 
Above,  around  the  ruddy  lightning  play'd, 
But,  with  bosoms  .void  of  dread, 

And  unpal'd,  each  rugged  brow, — 
As  their  gallant  vessel  sped 
i      Through  the  boiling  billows  now — 
Stood  the  vet'ran  and  the  sea-boy  undismayed. 

Gun,  shot,  and  shell  were-,  launch' d 

Quick  as  light  upon  the  wave, 
And  each  cheek  remain' d  unblanch'd, 

As  they  strove  in  vain  to  save- 
Their  devoted  ship,  borne  wildly  'fore  the  gale. 
From  each  royal  truck  to  deck, 

Mast  and  yard  were  cut  away ; 
That  proud  vessel,  now  a  wreck, 

On  the  welt'ring  billows  lay, 
And  bosoms  fill'd  with  fear,  and  brows  grew  pale. 


60  BUDS    AND    FLOWERS 

Then  bent  the  suppliant  knee, 

Then  bow'd  the  stubborn  neck  ; 
'Bove  the  billows  revelry, 

On  that  vessel's  storm-beat  deck, 
Their  voices  six-score  souls  for  mercy  rais'd  ; 
While  the  spirit  of  the  storm, 

In  mockery  on  his  throne, 
Rearing  high  his  shad'wy  form, 

Howl'd  aloud  his  tempest  tone, 
And  fiercely  bright  the  lurid  lightning's  blaz'd. 

Brilliant  eyes  were  wet  with  tears  ; 

From  proud  bosoms  that  had  known, 
Not  a  thrill  of  fear  for  years, 

Rose  despair's  terrific  groan, 
As  the  last  sweet  ray  of  hope  forever  fled. 
Deeply  silent  they  await 

The  dread  signal-fire  of  doom, 
While  the  hand  of  sombre  fate, 

Waves  them  to  a  watery  tomb, 
To  mingle  with  the  ocean's  myriad  dead. 

Ev'ry  boy  and  vet'ran  there, 

Felt  his  hardy  bosom  glow 
With  the  feelings  of  despair, 

With  unutterable  woe, 

As  the  reckless  past  was  open'd  to  review. 

Then  arose  the  fearful  cry, 

As  the  billow,  black  as  night, 
With  its  foaming  crest  on  high, 

Rolling  onward  in  its  might, 
Pass'd  above  the  gallant  Hornet  and  her  crew. 

Columbia  long  shall  weep, 

For  her  Norris,  and  the  braves 
Who  are  sleeping  death's  long  sleep, 

'Mong  the  ocean's  coral  caves  ; 
Brilliant  meteors  from  her  Constellation  torn. 


BUDS    AND    FLOWERS.  61 

And  many  a  sailor's  brow, 

Shall  a  shade  of  sadness  wear, — 
As  that  stormy  gulf  they  plough, — 

At  the  fate  of  those  who  there, 
By  the  dark  and  angry  billows  down  were  borne. 

From  the  aged  mother's  eye 

Love's  bright  tear  shall  wet  the  cheek, 
And  her  bosom  heave  the  sigh 

Of  a  grief  she  may  not  speak, 
When  her  memory  turns  to  him  she  lov'd  so  well. 
Let  us  hope  they  were  forgiven  ; 

Let  us  trust  that  unseen  Power, 
Yon  bright  and  glowing  heaven, 

Hath  made  the  matchless  dower 
Of  those  tars  of  whom  the  waves  have  sung  the  knell. 


#-##*****## 


I  cannot  forget  thee  !  those  angelic  eyes, 
As  brilliant  yet  bland  as  Italia's  skies, 
Are  near  me  when  dreams  of  Elysium  roll 
Their  magical  influence  over  my  soul. 

I  cannot  forget  thee  !  that  exquisite  lip, 
Whence  Cupid  a  banquet  of  nectar  might  sip, 
In  its  roseate  beauty  hath  power  to  move 
The  heart  of  the  savage  to  thrillings  of  love. 

I  cannot  forget  thee  !  that  forehead  so  fair, 
O'ershadowed  by  ringlets  of  raven  dark  hair, 
Is  ever  before  me,  and  round  it  is  flung 
A  beauty  more  perfect  than  poet  e'er  sung. 

I  cannot  forget  thee  !  thy  cheek's  rosy  bloom, 
Is  unequall'd  in  hue  by  the  tints  that  illume 
The  brow  of  the  spouse  of  king  Oberon,  when 
A  levee  she  holds  in  some  beautiful  glen. 


62  BUDS    AND    FLOWERS. 

I  cannot  forget  thee  !  the  lyre  of  love, 

From  its  slumbers  awoke  by  the  spirits  above, 

Emits  not  a  music  so  sweet  as  the  tone 

I  have  listen'd  to  oft,  in  thy'warblings  alone. 


Their  deeds  are  stars  on  histr'y's  page  ; 

No  other  land  beneath  the. sun, 
Can  boast  so  bright  a  heritage 

As  that  by  our  fore-father's  won  ; — • 
They  battled  not  for  fame  or  power  ; 

They  conquer'd  that  they  might  be  free, 
And  leave  their  sons  the  priceless  dower, 

Of  pure,  untrammell'd  liberty. 

Our  Eagle,  as  he  plum'd  his  wings, 
And  sought  his  aerie  in  the  sky, 

Look'd  down  upon  the  tools  of  kings, 
.  With  proud  defiance  in  his  eye  ; 

And  hover'd,  with  his  silver  crest, — 
Each  limb  as  heaven's  zephyrs  free, — 

Above  this  Eden  of  the  West, 
While  patriot's  struck  for  liberty. 

That  fearless,  that  devoted  band, — 

When  proud,  exulting. Britain  first 
With  hirelings  sought  Columbia's  strand, 

And  like  a  fierce  volcano  burst 
Upon  her  green  and  smiling  plains, — 

Unfurl'd  the  standard  of  the  free, 
And  hurl'd  oppression's  galling  chains, 

Beneath  the  feet  of  liberty. 

Where  are  those  dauntless  heroes  now, 
That  phalanx  of  the  true  and  brave  ? 

'Neath  freedom's  soil  each  laurell'd  brow, 
And  noble  heart  hath  found  a  grave. 


BUDS    AND    FLOWERS. 

And  shall  they  be  forgotten  ?     No  ! 

Remember'd  ever  shall  they  be, 
Whose  patriot  bosoms  urg'd  the  blow 

For  God,  for  home,  for  liberty. 


OF     A     PHISOSEB     O1T     REGAINING     HIS     1  I  B  E  a  T  T . 

0, 1  am  free,  or  has  my  brain  imbib'd  some  phantasy : — 
Have  baseless  visions  thrown  their  sweet,  deceptive  imagery 
Around  my  senses,  but  to  add  a  ten-fold  pang  to  pain  ? 
If  this  be  so,  as  well  it  may,  I'll  ne'er  believe  again. 

Am  I  not  free  !  do  I  not  hear  the  bird  upon  the  spray  ? 
O,  yes,  in  yonder  heaven  shines  the  glorious  orb  of  day ; — 
The  glowing  sky,  bud,  bush,  and  flower,  the  sun-beam  on  the  lea, 
In  peerless  beauty  fill  my  eye,  and  whisper  "  thou  art  free !" 

O,  sweet,  untrammell'd  liberty,  I'm  with  thee  once  again  ! 
The  laughing  ripple  on  the  lake,  the  breeze  upon  the  main, 
The  forest's  gorgeous  livery,  the  island's  emerald  shore, 
Have  all  put  on  their  sweetest  smiles  to  welcome  me  once  more. 

O,  how  I've  long'd  to  see  the  sun  shake  from  his  golden  pinions 
Unnumber'd  rays  of  burnish'd  light  around  his  broad  dominions  ; 
To  see  the  moon,  in  diadem 
Enrich'd  with  many  a  peerless  gem, 
Throw  o'er  the  Ethiop  brow  of  night 
Her  beams  of  beauteous,  mellow  light. 

O,  how  I've  long'd  to  roam  again  the  wild  wood  and  the  glen  ; 
To  mingle  in  the  revelry  with  brave  and  high  soul'd  men  ! 

The  deep  to  roam,  the  gale  to  brave  ; 

The  sea  my  home,  my  tomb  the  wave  ; 

To  seek  amid  the  battles  din 

A  glorious  death,  or  strive  to  win 

A  wreath,  whose  dazzling  leaves  might  cast 

Oblivions  shade  around  the  past. 


64  BUDS    AND    FLOWERS. 

O,  how  I've  long'd  to  see  the  earth  in  verdant  livery  drest, 
To  hear  a  kind  word  from  the  friends  by  whom  I  was  caress'd  ; 
Aye,  often  in  my  solitude,  did  faithful  memory  linger 
Around  the  scenes  of  happier  days,  and  with  her  golden  finger 
Point  to  the  flowing  bowl,  whose  poison'd  stream 
Hath  shorn  my  prospects  of  their  brightest  dream. 


He  knelt  beside  his  aged  mother's  bier, 
That  mother  on  whose  breast  in  infancy, 

His  head  had  oft  been  pillow 'd,  but  no  tear 
Cours'd  his  swart  cheek  to  tell  the  agony 

That  fill'd  his  seared  heart ;  nay,  all  too  deep 

The  grief  that  centr'd  there ;  he  could  not  weep. 

But  from  his  inmost  soul,  where  long  the  flame 
Of  black  Ingratitude's  fell  torch  had  thrown 

Its  foul,  infernal  light,  and  withering  shame, 
Sat  triumphing,  burst  many  a  fearful  groan, 

As  back  upon  the  past  its  thoughts  were  flung, 

And  dark  Remorse  his  bleeding  conscience  wrung. 

Beside  that  humble  grave,  the  reckless  past, 
His  froward  course,  his  curs'd  ingratitude, 

And  ev'ry  deed  which  serv'd  his  name  to  blast, 
In  bold  relief  upon  his  memory  stood  ; — 

And  as  he  gaz'd  upon  that  sullied  scroll, 

He  felt  a  hell  within  his  tortur'd  soul. 

For  him  that  doating  mother's  heart  had  bled ; 

For  him,  those  eyes,  now  lying  glaz'd  and  cold, 
The  tears  of  pity,  shame,  and  grief  had  shed  ; — 

Ah,  she  had  lov'd  him  with  a  love  untold  ! 
Nought  but  the  hand  of  death  had  power  to  move 
The  lasting  basis  of  that  mother's  love. 


BUDS    AND    FLOWERS. 

Uprais'd  his  tearless  eyes  and  folded  hands, 
As  knelt  the  ingrate  there,  with  burning  brow, 

Call'd  he  upon  his  God  to  burst  the  bands 
Of  vice,  that  bound  his  soul  to  misery  now ; 

And  there,  his  proud  and  wilful  heart  subdued, 

Sought  pardon  for  his  base  ingratitude. 

He  left  that  lowly  grave,  and  roam'd  the  world, 
Without  a  friend  to  whom  he  might  impart 

His  many  sorrows  ;  all  his  hopes  were  hurl'd, 
Blasted  upon  its  waters,  and  his  heart 

With  aught  allied  to  joy  no  longer  beat, 

For  there  Remorse  had  fix'd  her  gloomy  seat. 


Some  women,  sure,  are  half  divine  ; 

But  there  is  one  among  them  all, 
For  whom  I  would  that  I  might  twine 

A  lover's  coronal. 

She  is  not  beautiful,  but  yet 

There  is  a  something  in  her  mien, 

A  witchery  in  her  eye  of  jet, 
That  is  riot  often  seen. 

She  is  not  rich,  but  she  has  wealth, 

Just  such  as  woman's  wealth  should  be, 

A  peerless  mind,  and  priceless  health, 
And  matchless  modesty. 

She  is  not  proud,  but  there  is  nought, 
More  chaste  than  is  her  bosom  fair ; 

Nor  foolish,  nor  unhallow'd  thought, 
Hath  ever  centr'd  there. 
9 


66  BUDSANDFLOWERS. 

She  is  not  selfish, — nay,  the  glow 

Of  generous  feelings  warms  her  heart ; 

And  well  she  knows  to  others'  woe, 
A  solace  to  impart. 

Of  womankind,  there  treads  not  one 
Along  the  flow'ry  paths  of  earth, 

So  far  beyond  comparison, 
Of  such  transcendent  worth. 


U  jf  torafe  t®  ttiRur 


Aye  !  nail  it  firmly*  to  the  mast, 

That  banner  of  the  free,  — 
Its  stars  shall  light  Columbia's  sons 
To  death  or  victory. 

No  tyrant  hand  shall  sully  it; 
No  dastard  deed  shall  stain 
The  meteor  flag  of  liberty, 
Upon  the  laughing  main. 

Aye  !  nail  it  firmly  to  the  mast, 

And  let  our  battle  cry 
Be  borne  along  the  ocean  wave,— 
We'll  conquer  or  we'll  die  !  — 

No  tyrant  hand  shall  sully  it  ; 
No  dastard  deed  shall  stain 
The  meteor  flag  of  liberty, 
Upon  the  laughing  main. 

Aye  !  nail  it  firmly  to  the  mast, 
Its  glittering  folds  shall  flow, 
In  beauty,  o'er  the  brave  and  free, 
Till  planets  cease  to  glow. 

No  tyrant  hand  shall  sully  it; 
No  dastard  deed  shall  stain 
The  meteor  flag  of  liberty, 
Upon  the  laughing  main. 


BUDS    AND    FLOW  BUS. 


The  fiat  has  gone  forth  !  we  part  forever, 

The  golden  chain  that  bound -our  hearts  is  broken ;- 

We  meet  no  more,  but  memory's  pages  never 
•Shall  lose  a  trace  of  all  the  vows  thou'st  spoken. 

The  fiat  has  gone  forth  !  the  vows  we  plighted, 
Are  to  the  charter'd  winds  of  heaven  strewn  ; 

My  fondest  hopes  of  happiness  are  blighted ; 
Doom'd  am  I  now  to  tread  the  world  alone. 

How  many  a  bright  and  soothing  dream  of  pleasure 
Will  breathing  but  one  little  word  dispel ;— - 

We  part  forever !  Fate  hath  fill'd  the  measure 
Of  my  soul's  sadness !  dearest,  fere  thee  well! 


W  R  I  T  T  E  N  ON  THE  FIRST  OF  A  NEW  TEAR. 

Borne  on  the  wings  of  fleeting  Time,  away 

Hath  pass'd,  with  varied  change,  another  year  ; 

While  many  a  bending  form  hath  prov'd  his  sway, 
Full  many  an  eye  hath  shed  affection's  tear 

For  friends  belov'd,  in  whom  their  souls  were  wrapt, 

Whose  thread  of  life  death's  iron  hand  hath  snapt. 

Bosoms  full  fraught  with  bright  imaginings, 
Of  sweet  prospective  joys  in  years  to  come, 

Have  fall'n  beneath  the  ruthless  tyrant's  stings, 
And  mould'ring  lie  within  the  darkling  tomb. 

Thus  fade  to  nothingness  life's  high  wrought  schemes  ; 

Thus  prov'd  are  earth's  vile  gauds  but  airy  dreams. 


68  BUDS    AND    FLOWERS. 

Time's  deep-toned  voice  the  mournful  requiem 

Of  youth  and  age,  of  proud  and  meek,  hath  sung;- 

As  well  the  brow  where  shines  a  diadem, 

As  the  rude  serfs,  must  lie  earth's  dead  among ; — 

His  chariot  wheels  have  roll'd  through  every  land ; 

Nought  mortal  'scapes  his  all-subduing  hand. 

How  powerful  is  Time  !  yet  how  serene 
His  every  movement ;  with  a  noiseless  tread 

He  visits  every  bosom,  and  the  scene 

Is  not  o'er  which  by  him  no  change  is  spread. 

Man,  ocean,  earth,  the  heavens,  in  every  clime, 
Acknowledge,  all,  the  potent  hand  of  Time. 

Time's  changes  teach  how  precious  every  hour; 

We  know,  we  feel  that  brief  the  space  must  be 
Ere  we  are  ordered,  by  that  unseen  Power, 

To  launch  our  barques  upon  eternity, 
Yet  course  we  on,  regardless  of  his  flight, 
Till  whelms  our  souls  the  gloom  of  endless  night. 


*********** 


Thy  smile  is  like  the  golden  beam 

That  tints  the  summer's  cloud  with  hues, 
More  lovely  than  the  earliest  gleam 

Of  sunshine  o'er  morns  pearly  dews. 
That  witching  smile, — I  see  it  now, 

Around  thy  balmy  lip  'tis  dancing, 
And  lightly  o'er  thy  snowy  brow 

A  rosy  tint  of  mirth  is  glancing. 


BUDS    AND    FLOWERS. 

Ah  !  would  I  were  that  smile,  to  kiss 

Those  nectar  oozing  lips  of  thine, 
To  revel  round  that  throne  of  bliss, 

And  play  with  beauties  so  divine ; — 
I'd  hold  no  other  wish,  but  there 

Would  fondly  linger  day  and  night ; 
Nor  would  I  leave  a  home  so  fair  ; 

Nor  e'er  to  other  features  plight 

My  love,  to  be  a  sainted  thing, 

With  god's  to  hold  companionship, 
To  live  a  crown'd  and  sceptr'd  king, 

Or  lofty  heaven's  ambrosia  sip. 
There  is  a  something  in  thy  smile, 

That  hath  the  power  to  dissipate, 
And  wholly  of  my  heart  beguile, 

The  darkest  shade  of  cruel  fate. 

Maiden,  in  many  a  sunny  land, 

I've  watch'd  the  play  of  peerless  features ; 
On  many  a  shore  of  golden  sand, 

I've  seen  the  purest,  fairest  creatures. 
In  many  a  realm  beyond  the  sea, 

I've  gaz'd  upon  earth's  loveliest, 
But,  oh,  believe  me,  none  like  thee, 

In  every  charm  so  amply  drest. 

Thy  virtues  in  my  heart  shall  rest : — 

On  memory's  scroll  thy  sacred  name, — 
Like  beams  from  out  the  rosy  west, 

On  saucy  cupid's  darts  of  flame, 
Shall  linger  ever,,  and  when  death 

Shall  come,  with  all  his  phantasy, 
The  burthen  of  my  latest  breath 

Thy  lov'd  and  cherish'd  name  shall  be. 


70  BUDS    AND    FLOWERS. 


The  fox  may  roam  the  tangled  wood, 
The  spotted  hart  the  forest  tread, 

The  dolphin  glide  the  limpid  flood, 
•  The  courser  sweep  the  flowery  mead ; 

Scenes  clad  in  everlasting  bloom, 
The  painted  Indian,  wild  and  rude, 

May  wander,  but  the  captive's  doom 
Is  galling  chains  and  solitude. 

O'er  flowery  fields,  the  wilding  bee, 

In  search  of  nect'rine  sweets  may  stray  ; 
The  bird  his  dulcet  melody 

May  chaurit  upon  the  bending  spray ; 
But,  ah  !  what  cares  the  heart  consume 

What  all-subduing  griefs. intrude 
Upon  the  soul  of  him  whose  doom 

Is  galling  chains  and  solitude. 

The  fawn  beside  its  dam  may  play  ;     • 

The  halcyon  on  its  parent's  wing 
,..       ,         '  /.         ..    , 

May  dare  the  wave  ;  his  matin  lay        ,     .'.; 

The  soaring  lark  in  freedom  sing ; 
But,  fated  to  a  living  tomb, 

For  years  on  years  in  woe  to  brood 
Upon  the  past,  the  captive's  doom, 

Is  galling  chains  and  solitude. 

How  bright,  how  fleeting  are  the  hopes  of  youth  ! 
The  gems  that  fall  translucent  from  the  wings 
Of  purple  morning,  and,  the  sky  puts  on 
Its  carmine  tinted  drapery  to  meet 
The  amorous  sun,  vanish,  and  are  no  more — 
And  the  frail  flower  that  opes  its  velvet  cup, 
Giving  its  perfume  to  the  early  breeze, 
And  dying  with  the  day  that  saw  it  bloom, 
Are  emblems  meet  of  them. 


BUDS    AND    FLOWERS. 


Sailors,  list  to  one  who  knows, 

Feels  within  his  heart  of  hearts, 
All  the  soul-subduing  woes 

Curs'd  Intemperance  imparts. 
List  to  one,  around  whose  name, 

Once  as  fair  as  thine  may  be, 
Gather'd  by  the  hand  of  shame, 

Hang  the  clouds  of  infamy. 

Often  looks  he  back  on  hours, 

When  along  his  pathway  strewn, 
Flourish'd  friendship's  fairy  flow'rs, 

And  her  star  in  beauty  shone. 
But  those  flow'rs  are  withered  ; 

Pal'd  forever  are  their  dyes  ; 
Rayless  is  the  star  that  shed 

Light  on  boyhood's  sunny  skies. 

Sailor,  'twas  the  poison'd  wave 

Of  the  niadd'ning  bowl  that  swept, 
Blasted,  to  an  early  grave, 

Joys  whose  loss  he  long  has  wept. 
'Neath  its  baneful  current  sprung, — 

Scathing  in  his  breast  the  seeds, 
By  the  hand  of  Virtue  flung, — 

Black  Dishonour's  hateful  weeds. 

Would  were  his  alone  the  pain, 

His  alone  the  heart  array'd 
In  the  garb  of  sorrow,  vain, 

At  the  wreck  himself  hath  made. 
But,  alas  !  there  are  who  mourn, — 

Friends  whose  eyes  with  tears  are  dim, 
And  their  hearts  with  anguish  torn, — 

O'er  their  blighted  hopes  in  him. 


BUDS    AND    FLOWERS. 

Sailor,  thy  fond  parents  yet 

Down  life's  jagged  pathway  tread, 
Or,  mayhaps,  their  suns  have  set, 

They  are  gather'd  to  the  dead. 
Live  they  sailor,  do  not  blast 

All  their  high-wrought  hopes  in  thee  ; 
Are  they  dead ;  O,  do  not  cast 

Stains  upon  their  memory. 

Never  trim  thy  vessel's  sails, 

To  the  pestilential  breath 
Of  that  sea  whose  tide  exhales 

Infamy,  disease  and  death; 
Shun  it  as  thou  would'st  the  den 

Of  the  rav'ning  tiger,  shun, 
Spurn  away  the  curse  of  men, 

If  thou  would'st  not  be  undone. 


Sure  never  bow'd  before  an  earthly  shrine, 

A  form  more  fair,  more  fraught  with  loveliness ; 

A  softer  cheek,  a  rosier  lip  than  thine, 

Ne'er  felt  the  summer's  zephyrs  bland  caress. 

Those  orbs  of  light,  thy  lovely,  witching  eyes, 
Excel  the  gems  some  queenly  brow  entwining, 

Or  stars  around  Italia's  midnight  skies, 

Or  brilliants  'neath  the  orient  billow  shining. 

None  but  inspir'd  pens  may  hope  to  trace 
The  winning  beauty  of  thy  perfect  features, 

Or  paint  thy  matchless  form's  exquisite  grace, 
Thou  brightest,  fairest  of  terrestrial  creatures. 


JJ  IT  DS    AND    FLOWERS.  73 


/ 

How  charming  is  this  world  of  ours  !  . 

How  redolent  of  perfume  borne 
From  spicy  groves  and  floral  bowers, 

Around  us  plays  the  breeze  of  morn, 
When  nature  in  the  guise  of  spring, 

With  laughing  lip  and  joyous  brow, 
Around  each  'scene,  where  revelling 
Hoar  Winter  held  his  court  but  now, 

'  Her  vernal  beauties  throws  : — 
When,  enrob'd  in  living  amber, 
Day's  proud  monarch  leaves  his  chamber, 
And  raising  high  his  ruby  crest, 
O'er  the  ocean's  billowy  breast, 

With  tropic  splendor  glows  ; — 
When  along  the  dappled  skies — 
Drawn  by  coursers  gold  enshod, — 
Pageant  worthy  of  a  god, — 
His  refulgent  chariot  flies, 
Rolling  from  each  opal  tiar 
Countless  beams  of  liquid  fire, 
All  the  ambient  heavens  flaking ; 
And  of  clouds  around  him  breaking, 
Lighting  up  each  fleecy  hem ; 
And,  with  jewell'd  diadem, 
Tinging  with  prismatic  dyes 
All  the  fairy  isles  that  rise,      j^. 
Like  emeralds  in  sapphire  set, 
From  smiling  ocean's  coronet. 

Oh,  is  not  this  a  charming  world  ! 

Yonder  mountains  how  they  rise, 
Vapours  round  their  foreheads  curi'd, 

Grandly  to  the  beaming  skies. 
10 


nUDS    AND    FLOWERS. 

Down  the  rock  with  moss  o'ergrown, 
Uttering  a  plaintive  moan, — 
As  the  wind-harp's  blandest  tone, — 
Heard  when  on  its  dying  fall, — 
Soothing,  sweet,  and  musical, — 

Glides  the  bright  cascade, 
Verdant  vales  and  flow'ry  meads, 

With  silver  streamlets  leaping 
In  glee  along  their  pebbly  beds, 

And  noble  rivers  sweeping 
Their  azure  currents  to  the  main, 
Through  dark  ravine  and  sunny  plain, 

In  loveliness  array'd, 
From  horizon  to  horizon, 
It  glads  the  eye  to  look  upon. 

This  is  the  worldling's  home — his  all ; 

But  when  the  Christian's  soul  in  bliss 
Is  freed  from  its  clayey  thrall, 

'Twill  find  a  brighter  home  than  this 
Where  cloudless  skies,  pavilioning 
Scenes  clad  in  everlasting  spring, 
Their  downward  glories  shed  abroad 
Around  the  Paradise  of  God. 


Oh,  it  were  bliss  to  gaze  upon 

Thy  chaste  and  lovely  brow  ; 
To  bask  beneath  the  smile  of  one 
So  beautiful  as  thou. 

The  roses  on  thy  cheek  to  view, 
And  in  thy  laughing  eye  of  blue, 
So  brilliant,  so  entrancing, — 
With  bow  upon  his  shoulder  flung, 
And  quiver  at  his  baldric  hung, 
To  watch  young  Cupid  dancing. 


BUDS    AND    FLOWERS.  75 

'Twere  bliss  supreme  could  I  but  hold, 

Within  one  warm  embrace, 
A  form  of  such  exquisite  mould, 
Of  such  excelling  grace  ; 

To,  but  for  one  brief  instant^  press 
That  lip  of  matchless  loveliness, 

Thou  earth's  divinity, 
Or  clasp  thee  to  my  throbbing  heart, 
And  all  my  love  for  thee  impart, 
Were  heaven  enough  for  me. 


And  art  thou  gone  ?  thou  fair,  thou  bright  eyed  one, 

Whose  smile  was  lovelier  than  the  roseate  beam, 
That  plays  in  beauty  round  the  evening's  sun  ! 

Art  thou  then  gone  ?  whose  virtues  were  a  theme 
To  hallow  e'en  the  pens  of  sainted  things, 

And  throw  a  radiance  o'er  the  purest  page 
By  poet  trac'd ; — and  has  thy  soul  ta'en  wings, 

And  soar'd  away  to  that  sweet  heritage, 
That  home  of  endless  bliss  beyond  the  tomb, 

Where  myriad  seraphim, — a  countless  choir, — 
More  beautiful  than  when  in  earthly  bloom,— 

Give  praises  to  the  Lamb  with  voice  and  lyre  ! 

Se  young,  so  bright,  so  beautiful,  so  chaste, 

Hath  the  grim  tyrant  wooed  thee  to  the  tomb  ! 
And  am  I  doom'd  to  roam  earth's  weary  waste, 

Without  thy  smile,  its  darkness  to  illume  ? 
And  does  that  form  of  grace  and  perfect  mould, 

That  eye  of  azure,  and  that  placid  brow, 
That  rosy  lip,  that  hair  of  burning  gold, 

Lie  mould'ring  in  the  graves  cold  precinct's  now  ? 
Does  the  vile  earth  worm  revel  in  that  breast 

Where  none  but  virtue's  pulses  ever  beat  ? 
And  banquet  on  that  heart,  where  deep  imprest, 

The  kindliest  feelings  held  a  hallow'd  seat  ? 


76  'BUDS    AND    FLOWERS. 

It  seems  but  now  thy  mellow  voice  I  heard, 
Soft  as  the  sighing  of  a  summer's  sea, 

Or  the  sweet  music  of  some  gentle  bird, 
Filling  the  floating,  air  with  melody. 

•Oh,  Mirabel !  my  own,  my  loveliest, 
-y     I  doated  on  thee  in  thy  hours  of  bloom  ; 
I  half  ador'd  thee  in  thy  beauty  drest, 

And  all  my  love  is  with  thee  in  the  tomb-! 
Oft  have  I  thought, — when  I  have  seen  thee  move, 

A  paragon  of  loveliness,  a  beauteous  thing 
Of  wond'rous  brightness,  form'd  alone  for  love,— 

To  see  thy  more  than  earthly  charms  take  wing, 
And  flee  away  to  that  celestial  home, 

Where  angel  spirits  pure  as  is  thine  own, 
Their  voices  blending,  fill  yon  azure  dome 

With  melody  to  this  vile  sphere  unknown. 
I  said  thou  wert  too  pure  to  linger  here, 

Thou  fairest,  once,  of  all  this  earth's1  fair  flowers ; 
And  now  thou'rt  gone  to  grace  a  loftier  sphere, 

And  roam  with  saints  among  Elysian  bowers. 
Oh,  Mirabel!  my  own,  lov'd  Mirabel, 

Earth  hath  no  other  half  so  fair  as  thee  ; — 
Thy  worth  shall  ever  in  this  bosom  dwell, 

A  sun-beam  on  the  sky  of  memory. 


Look  on  those  lovely  features, — is  there  aught 
But  chastity  and  meekness  blended  there  ? 

Say  ?   is  not  every  lineament  enfraught 

With  heavenly  beauty,. in  that  face  so  fair  ? 

Scan  well  that  ample  brow  of  snowy  whiteness, 
Shaded  by  graceful  braids  of  golden  hair ; 

Look  on  that  full  blue  eye  of  soothing  brightness, 
And  say  if  aught  unhallow'd  lingers  there  ? 


BUDS    AND    FLOWERS.  77 

Look  at  that  dimpled  cheek ;  no  forest  flower 

In  all  its  loveliness  can  boast  such  hues ; 
And  that  soft  lip  ;  'tis  laughing  Cupid's  bower, 

More  rife  with  sweets  than  Hermon's  holy  dews. 

The  poet,  painter,  sculptor,  each  hath  striven, 

With  art  unpeer'd  to  rira]  nature's  grace ; 
But  vain  the  task,  no  hand,  save  that  of  heaven, 

Can  e'er  so  much  unearthly  beauty  trace. 


No  storied  urn,  nor  fluted  column  rears 

Its  sculptur'd  beauty  o'er  the  hallow'd  spot 
Where  rests  the  warrior  of  by-gone  years  ; 
But  dark  oblivion  hath  not  power  to  blot, 
From  the  proud  temple  on  the  hill  of  fame, 
His'  matchless  virtues  ;• — and  his  glorious  name, 
Who,  heaven  directed,  led  a  patriot  band 
O'er  fields  of  blood,  to  free  his  native  land 
From  fetters  forg'd  by  vile  oppression's  hand, 
Still  shines  as  brightly  as  the  glowing  sun, 
When  bursts  he  on  the  orient  horizon, 
And  shakes  his  pinions  o'er  the  land  and  sea : 
That  warrior's  monument  is  Liberty  } 

Go  ask  the  shades  who  was  their  country's  shield, 

When  tyrant  Britain,  from  her  sea-girt  shore, 
Sent  forth  her  scarlet  legions  to  the  field, 

And  stain'd  this  Eden  with  its  children's  gore  ! 
Let  Princeton's  heights,  where  gallant  Mercer  fell, 

And  .pour'd  his  life's  blood  out  for  liberty, — 
When  Albion's  champions  bow'd  before  the  free, — 

And  Trenton's  plains  the  thrilling  story  tell. 
Let  Monmouth,  on  whose  blood  ensanguin'd  field, 
The  foe  before  the  shock  of  freedom  reel'd, 
And  Yorktown,  Saratoga,  Bennington, — 
Where  Freedom's  phalanx  brilliant  laurels  won  ; — 


78  BUDS    AND    FLOWERS. 

Breed's  Hill,  and  Lexington, — where  first  the  free, 
With  fearless  bosoms  struck  for  liberty, — 
And  Germantown,  be  monuments  to  prove 
How  fair  his  courage, — how  sublime  his  love. 

He  was  no  Caesar,  with  a  mail  clad  band, 

And  ruthless  bosom,  seeking  power  to  sway 
A  glittering  sceptre  o'er  his  native  land, 

And  frighting  millions  with  his  dread  array. 
His  bosom  knew  not,  never  felt  the  flame 
That  vile  ambition  kindles  in  the  soul : 
His  life  was  virtuous,  and  the  scroll  of  fame 
Shall  bear  the  impress  of  his  hallow'd  name, — 
Rever'd  in  ev'ry  land,  from  pole  to  pole, — 
Till  Time's  no  more,  and  planet's  cease  to  roll. 


i£  flair 

TO     HIS     A  C  Q.  U  A  I  IT  T  A  K  C  E  S  , 

On  being  asked  to  partake  with  them  in  the  Inebriating  Cup. 

What !  taste  that  bowl  again  ?  how  dare 

Ye  tempt  me  with  its  wave  ? 
Nay  !  never  more,  the  poison  there 

These  lips  of  mine  shall  lave  ! 
Nay  !  never  more  around  my  soul 
Shall  its  defiling  current  roll ! 
I  would  not  taste  that  baneful  thing 
To  be,  of  earth,  the  proudest  king  ! 

What !  taste  that  bowl  again  !  and  be, 

As  once,  a  grovelling  slave  ? 
Wed  crime,  and  grief,  and  obloquy, 

And  fill  a  drunkard's  grave  ? 
Oh  !  tempt  me  not,  if  ye  are  men ; 
I  will  not  taste  that  bowl  again  ! 
Be  mine  God's  heaviest  malison. 
When  I  from  this  resolve  am  won  ! 


BUDS    AND    FLOWERS.  79 

fil 


Oh,  talk  of  rosy  Love  no  more  ! 

The  winged  boy  'neath  Mammon's  tread 
Hath  perish'd,  and  the  darts  he  bore 

Are  broken,  and  the  silken  thread, 
With  which  his  silver  bow  was  strung, 

Is  sever'd,  and  his  torch  is  cold, 
And  one  from  earth's  base  bosom  sprung 

Usurps  his  place  :  his  name  is  Gold  ! 

See  at  yon  holy  altar  stand, 

A  being  fairer  than  the  sun  ; 
A  sacrifice  to  gold,  her  hand, 

But  not  her  heart,  she  gives  to  one, 
For  whom  her  soul  has  never  known 

The  joyous,  deep,  warm  pulse  of  love  ; 
Whose  fairest  gift,  nor  kindest  tone 

Had  power  that  heart  to  move. 

In  costly  vesture  view  her  now  ; 

Behold  the  gems  and  jewels  rare 
That  sparkle  on  her  polish'd  brow, 

And  mingle  with  her  ebon  hair. 
This  glittering  pageantry,  how  vain  ; 

'Tis  but  a  mockery  of  the  woe 
That  reigns  within,  the  poignant  pain 

Which  she  alone  may  know. 

Fond  friends  to  grace  the  bridal  feast, 

Are  met,  and  ev'ry  heart  with  glee, 
Save  one,  is  throbbing  ;  in  her  breast 

Sits  brooding  dark  brow'd  misery. 
Kind  words  and  many  a  warm  caress 

Are  lavished  on  the  hapless  bride, 
But  fail  to  calm  the  deep  distress, 

The  pain  she  cannot  hide, 


80  BUDSAND-FLOWERS. 

In  sorrow,  on  the  sire,  whose  mind 

Her  lover's  wealth,  and  broad  domains, 
And  titled  name  had  power  to  bind 

In  sordid  Av'rice's  venal  chains, 
She  gazes  oft,  but  from  her  eye, 

No"  tear  impell'd  by  anger  steals  ; 
While,  of  her  bursting  heart,  a  sigh 

The  agony  reveals. 

Where  stays  the  bridegroom  ?  he  is  nigh 

The  purchas'd  one  ;  her  person  fair 
.Is  his, — but,  ah  !  he  could  not  buy 

Her  young,  warm  heart ;  nay,  never  there, 
For  him,  shall  love's  bright  planet  glow ; 

Never  the  heart  by  him  unwon, 
Shall  burst  its  springs,  with  his  to  flow 

In  happy  unison. 


flWUft 

Touch  not  the  sparkling  bowl ! 

Its  brightly  bearded  stream 
May  throw  around  the  soul 

An  evanescent  beam ; 
But  soon  that  beam  will  be  dispell'd, 
And  fled  the  joy  the  bosom  swell'd. 

Touch  not  the  sparkling  bowl ! 

Its  ruddy  tide  will  throw 
A  sadness  o'er  the  soul, 

And  compass  it  with  woe  ! 
The  asp,  or  adder,  does  not  bear 
So  deep  a  bane  as  centres  there. 

Touch  not  the  sparkling  bowl ! 

Its  golden  wave  beware  ; 
'Twill  scathe  the  proudest  soul, 

And  shade  the  brow  with  care  ! 
O,  touch  it  not !  its  poison'd  wave, 
Is  but  a  pander  to  the  grave  ! 


BUDS    A  XI)    FLOWERS.  81 


Flora  Dell  was  the  fairest  young  creature 
E'er  seen  by  my  good  looking  eyes  ; 

She,  so  bright  of  her  face  was  each  feature, 
Was  gaz'd  on  by  all  with  surprise. 

I  will  tell  you  some  little  about  it ; 

No  I  wont,  though  !  for  what  is  the  use? 
Yes,  I  will,  and  if  't  suits  you  to  doubt  it, 

Go,  you  may,  if  you  please,  to  the  deuce. 

By  my  soul,  I'm  at  loss  for  beginning! 

Let  me  think  : — I'll  commence  at  the  crown, 
And  paint,  of  a  creature  so  winning, 

Each  charm  from  the  cranium  down. 

With  grace,  the  most  exquisite  braided, 
And  black  as  the  sheen  anthracite, 

Her  locks,  fine  as  gossamer,  shaded 
A  brow,  as  the  Eider's  down,  white. 

Her  eye-brows  were  arched  and  glossy ; 

The  lids  white  as  snow  flakes,  or  milk ; 
Her  eyes,  'neath  long  lashes  and  flossy, 

Look'd  diamonds  shining  through  silk. 

Her  nose,  I've  seen  Greeks  with  such  noses  ; 

Her  lips,  cupid's  bow,  what  a  pair  ! 
Her  cheeks,  never  Spring's  ruddy  roses, 

Could  equal  the  dyes  centred  there. 

Her  chin  did  not  look  like  a  swelling, 
As  some  do,  but  rounded  with  grace, 

And  made  up  that  fair,  love-compelling, 
Exceedingly  bright  thing,  her  face. 
11 


82  B.U  DS    AND    FLOWERS. 

Swan-like  was  her  neck, — don't  be  blushing, 
My  dear  little  reader,  I  pray, — 

And  the  delicate  tinge  o'er  it  flushing, 
Was  that  of  the  white  rose  in  May. 

Her  bosom,  I'm  sure  there's  no  telling 
The  charms  of  a  feature  so  fair, 

Enough  that  the  rosy  boy's  dwelling, 
And  heart-piercing  arrows  were  there. 

Now,  say  lovely  girl,  with  the  blue  eyes, 
Thou  sylph  with  the  black,  also,  tell, 

Did  ever  thy  heart-breaking  two  eyes, 
See  fairer  than  young  Flora  Dell  ? 


"  Every  inordinate  cup  is  unbless'd,  or  the  ingredient  is  a  devil." 

Away  !  away  !  thou  sparkling  curse, 

There's  poison  in  thy  ruddy  stream  ; 
The  shroud  of  death,  the  sable  hearse, 

Upon  thy  golden  ripples  gleam. 
Thy  tide  the  heavy  heart  may  wake 

To  feelings  of  the  liveliest  joy  ; 
But,  ah !  'it  is  the  gilded  snake, 

That  fascinates  but  to  destroy.  >j 

Away  !  away !  accursed  thing, 

For  well  I  know  accurs'd  thou  art; 
Away  !  thy  baneful  tide  will  bring 

Destruction  to  the  noblest  heart. 
Before  its  blighting  influence  fall 

The  fairest,  fondest,  hopes  of  friends  ; 
It  holds  the  heavy  heart  in  thrall, 

The  silken  ties  of  friendship  rends. 


BUDS    AND    FLOWERS.  83 

Away  !  away  !  in  boyhood's  prime, 

Before  I  knew  thy  poison'd  flood, 
This  seared  heart  was  void  of  crime, 

And  virtue  on  its  tablet's  stood. 
A  father's  fond  affection  threw 

Around  my  path  its  brightest  beams, 
And  in  a  mother's  love  I  knew 

A  life  made  up  of  joyous  dreams. 

Away  !  away !  thy  ruddy  tide 

Shall  ne'er  pollute  my  lips  again  ; 
Away  !  away  !  thou  art  defied, 

I  will  not  wear  thy  galling  chain ; 
For  I  have  learnt  how  vile  thou  art, 

And  reason  hath  regain'd  her  sway  ; 
No  longer  o'er  my  wounded  heart 

Shalt  thou  have  power — away  !  away  ! 


Eyes,  eyes  !  woman's  eyes, 
Black  and  hazle,  grey  and  blue, 

Bright  as  India's  sunny  skies, — 
Gallants,  let  me  sell  them  you. 

Here's  a  pair  as  black  as  night, 
Brilliant  as  the  purest  gem : 

Never  saw  ye  those  so  bright, — 
Gallants,  let  me  sell  you  them. 

They  're  a  maiden's,  in  the  first 
Lovely  flush  of  woman's  spring, 

Born  in  penury,  and  nurs'd 

•  Neath  Privation's  gloomy  wing  ; 

But  of  virtue  she's  possest, — 

Buy  them,  gallants,  and  be  blest. 


84  BUDS    AND    FLOWERS. 

Now  I'll  cateh  them  ! — but  a  glance 
From  these  liquid  orbs  of  light, 

Will  the  hearts  of  all  entrance, 
If  they  are  not  monkie's  quite. 

Underneath  each  snowy  lid, 

Rosy  Love,  himself,  lies  hid. 

.  Up  they  go  I  come,  gallants,  all, 
Here  are  twins. beyond  compare  ; 

Never  bosom  own'd  the  thrall 
Of  a  brace  so  passing  fair  j 

They  're  the  index,  you  will  find, 

Of  a  pure  and  lofty  mind. 

Not  a  bid  ?  ah,  foolish  me, 

Wasting  here  my  breath  for  nought, 

When.  I  know  that  foppery, 
But  by  bait  of  gold  is  caught. 

This,  the  age  of  tinselry, 

Laughs  at  love  and  purity. 

True  it  is,  that  now-a-days, 
Though  as  simple  as  the  moth 

That  around  a  candle  plays, 
Man  is  measur'd  by  his  cloth . 

True  it  is,  that  solid  sense 

Yields  to  vain  acquirements. 

I'll  try  again,  come !  here's  a  pair 
Blue  as  ocean,  ere  the  wing 

Of  the  spirit  of  the  air, 

Wakes  its  halcyon  slumbering, 

Perfect  is  the  owner's  mould, 

And  her  wealth  cannot  be  told. 

Ha  !  ha !  ha !  see  how  they  fly  !  • 
Fair  and  homely,  weak  and  strong, 

"  I  will  buy  them !  I  will  buy  !" 
Crying  as  they  speed  along. 

Surely,  you  're  a  silly  sex, 

Men  for  gold  to  break  your  necks. 


BUDS  'A  N  D    F  LO  W  E  RS  .  85 

Now  then,  gallants,  what  d'ye  say, — 

I  the  lovely  blue  have  sold, — 
To  this  pair  of  sparkling  grey  ?  .',:  i 

She  who  owns  them  rolls  in  gold; 
But  she's  peevish  and  a  miser, 
And,  justly,  all  the  world  despise  her. 

Take  them,  then,  my  bonny  youth  ! 

'Tis  a  saying  known  of  old, — 
Moderns,  too,  have  prov'd  its  truth, — 

"  Man  will  sell  his  soul  for  gold !" 
Aye,  and  bend  at  Satan's  shrine,  .    • 

Like  a  slave,  his  brow  divine. 


.  "  Remember  now  thy  Creator,  in  the  days  of  thy  youth."    Ecc.  xii.  1. 

Seek  Him  ere,  as  the  dews  on  bud  and  blossom 

Vanish  before  the  rosy  beams  of  day, 
The  joyous  pulses  of  thy  youthful  bosom 

By  the  rude  hand  of  Time  are  swept  away. 
Time's  fleeting  pinions  o'er  thy  brow  are  throwing 

Their  twilight  shadows  ;  soon  thy  strength  will  fail, 
And  round  the  sky  with  girlhood's  sun-light  glowing, 

Will  drivelling  Age  entwine  his  hoary  veil. 

While  yet  around  thy  mirthful  heart  no  sadness 

Has  fall'n  from  gnarled  sorrow's  sable  wing, 
To  chill  the  music  of  its  notes  of  gladness, 

Or  blight  its'  gem-buds  in  their  blossoming, 
Lay  earthly  vanities  aside,  and  raising 

Thy  soul,  unfetter'd,  to  the  unbounded  heaven, — 
Where,  clad  in  might  and  majesty,  is  blazing 

The  eternal  god-head, — ask  to  be  forgiven. 


86  BUDS    AND    FLOWERS. 

While  yet  above  thy  flow'ry  path  the  brightness 

Of  guileless  girl-hood's  halcyon  skies  is  shed, 
And,  ere  by  this  rude  world's  vile  schemes  the  whiteness, 

The  purity  of  thy  soul's  robes  are  sullied, 
Give  Him  thy  heart ;  and  when  life's  tie  is  riven, 

And  earth's  poor  nothings  vanish-from  thy  sight, 
Bliss- wrapt,  thy  soul  shall  wing  its  way  to  heaven, 

And  reign  with  Him  in  realms  of  endless  light. 


Her  eye  was  the  brightest,  her  forehead  was  fair ; 
As  black  as  the  wing  of  the  heath-cock  her  hair ; 
Never  night's  pallid  queen,  nor  the  monarch  of  day 
Shone  on  being  more  lovely  than  Isabel  May. 

On  her  dimple-grac'd  cheek  rosy  health  revell'd  high  ; 
Blandly  sweet  was  her  voice,  as  the  sea-maiden's  sigh, 
And  never  throbb'd  bosom  so  lightsome  and  gay, 
Yet  so  guileless,  as  that  of  young  Isabel  May. 

Her  lips,  by  Dan  Cupid's  attempts  were  in  vain 
To  express  half  the  charms  of  that  beautiful  twain  ; 
I  cannot  describe  them, — suffice  it  to  say, 
Never  two  lips  excell'd  those  of  Isabel  May, 

Her  mouth  was  exquisite, — an  angel's  her  smile, 
Discovering  pearls  strung  on  roses,  the  while, 
And  balmy  and  pure  as  the  breezes  that  play 
Over  Tempe,  the  breath  of  young  Isabel  May. 

Her  form, — fam'd  Murillo  ne'er  limn'd  aught  so  fine, — 
'Twas  perfect,  'twas  peerless, — nay,  almost  divine : 
Shapeless,  all,  are  the  Naiads  that  sport  'mid  the  spray 
Of  old  ocean,  compar'd  with  young  Isabel  May. 


BUDS    AND    FLOWERS.  87 

No  Georgian  damsel,  no  sylph  of  Cashmere, 
In  the  harem  of  Mahmoud,  her  beauty  may  peer ; 
Never  troubadour  warbled  his  love -breathing  lay 
To  a  being  so  bright  as  young  Isabel  May. 

No  gallant  of  yore,  in  Spain,  England,  or  France, 
Ever  reign'd  his  proud  charger,  and  couch'd  his  good  lance, 
In  the  lists  of  the  tourney,  or  red  field  of  fray, 
For  a  lady-love  fairer  than  Isabel  May. 

But  'twas  pity  a  form  so  transcendently  fair, 
Such  eloquent  eyes,  such  a  forehead,  such  hair, 
Such  cheeks,  lips,  voice,  breath,  and  a  bosom  so  gay, 
Should  belong  to  one  cold  as  was  Isabel  May. 

Cold,  aye,  was  she !  cold  as  the  ice-bergs  that  roll 
Their  fantastical  peaks  round  the  Antarctic  pole, 
Or  the  Arctic, — no  matter  which, — love's  burning  ray 
Never  fell  on  the  heart  of  young  Isabel  May. 

Youth,  comely  and  warm,  at  her  feet  knelt  and  sigh'd  ; 
Age,  to  win  but  a  smile  would  have  willingly  died, 
And  deem'd  himself  blest ;  but  the  dark  hair'd  and  grey, 
Met  with  treatment  alike  from  young  Isabel  May. 

Youth  swore  she  was  bright  as  the  mother  of  Love; 
"Wrinkled  Age,  that  she  equall'd  the  seraphs  above  ; 
But  vain  was  each  vow,  for  she  laugh'd  them  away, 
That  cold  hearted  creature,  young  Isabel  May. 

It  was  strange,  passing  strange,  by  Olympian  Jove  ! 
Till  I  saw  that  cold  beauty,  I  thought  that  in  love 
Was  the  heaven  of  woman  : — fair  reader,  I  pray, 
Tell  me,  truly,  are  all  cold  as  Isabel  May  ? 

If  so,  by  my  eyes,  it  were  well  all  her  sex 
Have  not  power,  as  she,  lordly  man  to  perplex ; 
For  then,  without  budding,  post,  rafter  and  tree, 
Would  be  rife  with  the  fruit  of  dark  felo  de  se. 


88  BUDS    AND   FLOWERS. 


There  is  a  clime,  it  was  the  fairest  clime 

Beneath  the  sun,  when  Freedom  first  unfurl'd 
Her  radiant  banner,  and  in  tones  sublime 
'Q:        Proud  Fame  proclaim'd  her  mistress  of  the  world. 

Her  children  then  the  moral  image  bore 
-   Of  that  first  pair,  which  wander'd  Eden  o'er 
Ere  the  fell  serpent  came,  and  with  an  art 
Unknown  to  mortals,  won  the  woman's  heart. 

But,  ah  !  how  chang'd  this  beautiful  parterre  ! 

This  home  and  heritage  of  free-born  men, 
Whose  gallant  sires,  beneath  red  war's  deep  glare, 

Rear'd  high  fair  freedom's  fane,  how  chang'd  since  then. 
Still  o'er  her  bends  the  same  cerulean  sky, 
And  rolling  stars,  from  their  bright  spheres  on  high, — 
The  dazzling  heraldry  of  heaven, — pour 
Upon  her  soil  their  brilliance  as  of  yore. 

The  same  bright  orb  sheds  down  its  mellow  beams  ; 

Mount,  hill,  and  valley,  lake  and  forest  tree, 
Her  waving  prairies,  and  her  noble  streams 

Are  still  the  same,  but  she's  no  longer  free. 
Nay,  o'er  the  country  hallo w'd  by  the  graves 
Of  matchless  patriots  walk  a  race  of  slaves, — 
Aye,  slaves!  with  power,  but  wanting  will  to  burst 
The  chains  that  bind  them  to  a  thing  accurst. 

It  is  no  king,  in  regal  splendor  drest, 

No  tinsell'd  flesh  and  blood,  nojewell'd  brow 

Before  whose  throne,  to  do  each  high  behest 
Columbia's  bondaged  children  meekly  bow. 

Oh,  no!  each  heart  with  freedom's  fire  would  warm, 

The  hoary  head,  and  buoyant  youth  would  arm 

And  rush  to  battle,  did  a  king  essay 

His  sceptre  o'er  their  parent  soil  to  sway. 


BUDS    AND    FLOWERS. 

Nay,  never  will  her  offspring  bend  the  knee 
In  mute  obedience  to  a  monarch's  frown  ; 
But,  shame  to  say,  'neath  hell's  own  alchemy,  T 

Foul,  madd'ning  spirit  bow  servilely  down, 
Till  blighted  by  its  soul-polluting  tide, 
Fair  featur'd  Honour,  bland  eyed  Virtue,  Pride, — 
Yea,  all  that  forms  the  heart's  bright  panoply, — 
The  bosom's  armour,  sicken,  droop,  and  die. 

Aye !  Reason,  too,  the  golden  link  that  binds 

To  things  celestial,  man's  exalted  soul, 
Hurl'd  from  her  throne  by  madd'ning  spirit,  finds 

A  grave  unhallow'd  'neath  its  vile  control. 
What  then  were  man  ?    The  lordly  forest  oak 
Scath'd,  riven,  blasted  by  the  lightning's  stroke, 
No  more  the  verdant  robe  of  spring  to  wear, 
Of  him  were  emblem  meet, — a  thing  as  fair. 

Go,  tread  yon  Bedlam's  howling  cells  among, 
And  view  the  forms  whilom  of  perfect  mould ; 

The  limbs  once  graceful,  nervous,  firm,  well  strung, 
As  were  proud  Athens'  athletae  of  old. 

Look  on  the  furrow'd  brow,  the  wandering  eye, 

The  fiendish  grin  of  dread  Insanity, — 

Of  dark  Intemperance  the  horrid  fruit, — 

What  once  was  man  is  now  a  raving  brute. 

Look  in  upon  the  wretches  doom'd  to  brood 
On  prospects  blighted,  o'er  the  past  to  mourn 

For  years  on  years,  in  wasting  solitude  :  — 

What  forg'd  the  chains  they  wear,  so  long  have  worn ; 

Drew  close  around  each  once  unsullied  name 

The  sable  drapery  of  blasting  shame, 

And  struck  at  Honour's  root  the  deadly  blow  ? 

Dark  brow'd  Intemperance,  man's  veriest  foe. 

And  is  this  all  ?  stops  the  fell  monster  here  ? 

Hath  fill'd  she  now  the  mortal's  cup  of  woe  ? 
Nay,  tread  yon  quiet  burial  place,  where  rear 

Love's  tributes  o'er  the  mould  that  rests  below, 
12 


90  BUDS    AND    FlO  WERS. 

And  there  behold,  on  every  side  around, 
'Neath  brilliant  shaft,  and  urn,  and  humble  mound, 
The  thousands  whom  her  soul-destroying  wave 
Hath  swept  from  life  to  fill  an  early  grave. 

Then  turn,  and  o'er  our  once  proud  Union, 
From  Maine  to  Mexico,  from  sea  to  sea, 
Behold  the  millions  spirit's  power  hath  won 

From  calm  content  to  withering  misery. 
What  painful  scenes  upon  the  vision  break, 
And  of  the  heart  the  better  feelings  wake  ! 
What  ruin,  wrought  by  those  in  slavery, 
To  .curs'd  Intemperance  fills  the  roving  eye  ! 

Oh,  man  !  proud  man,  of  high  Omnipotence 
The  noble  image,  willing  slave  to  rum, — 

The  murderer  foul  of  every  moral  sense, 

The  grave's  chief  pander, — what  hast  thou  become? 

Where  now  the  qualities  that  constitute 

Creation's  lord  superior  to  the  brute  ? 

The  lofty  mind,  deep  searching  reason  ?  fled  ! 

Self-love,  bright  honour,  virtue  ?  all  are  dead  ! 

How  long,  Columbia,  wilt  thou  groan  beneath 

The  woe-dispensing  demon  that  has  trod, 
With  buskin  foul,  and  pestilential  breath, 

Above  the  fairest,  noblest  works  of  God ; 
Blighted  the  intellectual  mind,  and  flung 
The  cankering  worm  thy  brightest  flow'rs  among, 
Snapt  Friendship's  silken  tie,  Love's  shafts  of  flame, 
And  render'd  Virtue  but  an  empty  name  ? 

E'en  now,  methinks,  the  sable  fiend  I  see 
Her  pinions  pluming,  ready  to  be  gone ; 
Again,  beneath  the  smiles  of  Liberty, — 

As  fair  as  that  our  noble  fathers  won, — 
Thy  moral  degradation  cleans'd  away, 
Swart  Slav'ry's  night  dispell'd  by  Freedom's  day, 
I  see  thee,  clad  in  Virtue's  gorgeous  robe, 
As  once  thou  wast,  the  wonder  of  the  globe. 


BUDS    AND    FLOWERS.  91 

By  what  is  this  fair  vision  conjur'd  up  ? 

I  see  the  fiend's  blind  votaries  reclaim'd, 
Bursting  her  fetters,  dashing  down  the  cup 

Whose  baneful  tide  their  souls  so  long  enflam'd ; 
And,  hand-in-hand,  with  those  who  never  felt 
The  power  of  her  allurements,  never  knelt 
And  worshipp'd  at  her  shrine,  a  glorious  band, 
Firm,  close-rank'd,  driving  Spirit  from  thy  land. 


"  The  fool  hath  said  in  his  heart,  there  is  no  God."    1'saims  xiv.  1. 

Go,  gaze  thou  on  the  firmanent,  when  from  his  amber  wings 
The  day  god  o'er  its  graceful  dome  a  flood  of  radiance  flings ; 
And  when  from  its  unbounded  arch  Sol's  golden  beams  have  fled, 
And  round  the  argent  shield  of  night  the  stars  hang  clustered. 

View  it  when,  deep  as  Egypt's  night,  a  darkness  nature  shrouds, 
And  howls  his  notes  the  tempest  king  upon  the  squadron'd  clouds  ; 
While  'bove,  below,  around  his  path,  the  vivid  lightnings  flash, 
And,  shaking  earth  from  pole  to  pole,  the  startling  thunders  crash. 

Go,  look  thou  on  the  halcyon  flood  of  ocean,  clad  in  smiles, 
As  laves  it,  murmuring  as  it  flows,  a  thousand  sunny  isles  ; 
And  view  it  when  its  placid  breath  by  tempest  blast  is  riven, 
And  upward  roll,  in  fearful  wrath,  its  foamy  waves  to  heaven. 

Go,  look  thou  on  the  crater'd  mount  when  wreathes  of  wavy  snow 
Lie  stainless  round  its  charred  crest,  from  fires  that  burn  below  ; 
And  mark  it  when  with  furnace  heat  its  molten  lava  glides, 
As  brightly  as  a  mountain  stream,  adown  its  furrow'd  sides. 

Go,  look  thou  on  the  wilderness,  the  patriarchs  of  the  wood, 
Which,  ages,  with  their  foliag'd  boughs,  the  storm  and  sun  have  stood  ; 
And  see,  they  bend  like  reeds  before  the  whirlwind's  dread  career, 
Each  sturdy  trunk  is  blasted  now,  each  verdant  crown  is  sere. 


BUDS    AND    FLOWERS. 


Once  more,  proud  man,  around  thee  look !    behold  the  smiling  earth, 
Its  gurgling  streams,  and  groves,  and  bowers,  all  redolent  of  mirth. 
Look  on  the  mount,  the  vale,  the  hill,  the  waste,  and  em'rald  sod, 
And  say ;  but  nay,  thou  dar'st  not  say,  thou  worm,  "  there  is  no  God  !" 


@  flair  d 

A   Paraphrase. 

The  earth  lay  void  and  shapeless,  and  the  deep, 
Upon  whose  face  the  Almighty's  spirit  mov'd, 
Roll'd  'neath  chaotic  darkness. 

With  awful  voice  now  spake  that  mighty  One, 
And  beams  of  light  in  corruscations  shot 
Their  mellow  glories  through  the  gloomy  space, 
While  wrapt  in  breathless  admiration,  stood 
The  swift  wing'd  seraphim  around  His  throne. 
Beheld  He  then  and  saw  that  it  was  good, — 
This  primal  essay  of  His  potent  hand, — 
And  separate  plac'd  the  light  and  darkness, 
Calling  the  former  day,  the  latter  night. 

God  spoke  again  : — the  firmament  arose, 
Dividing  deep  from  deep,  and  sphere  from  sphere ; 
And  heaven's  blue  arch*  m  all  its  loveliness, 
Its  grace  of  curve,  arid  limitless  extent, 
Bent  like  a  halo  o'er  the  second  day. 

Again  He  spoke  : — the  waters  'neath  and  'bove 

The  bending  sky, — as  went  His  fiat  forth, — 

Together  roll'd,  and  the  dry  land  app'ear'd. 

The  congregated  waters  call'd  He  seas, 

The  dry  land,  earth — and  both  He  deemed  good. 

He  said,  and  from  the  fertile  earth  sprang  up 

The  bladed  grass,  and  herb  that  yieldeth  seed, 

And  tree  whose  branches  groaned  'nsath  golden  fruit. 

He  look'd  upon  His  work,  pronounc'd  it  good, 

And'thus  the  third  day's  labour  finished  ? 


B  U  D  S    A  N-D    FLOWERS.  93 

He  spoke  again: — and  up  the  concave  rode, 

In  matchless  brilliance  drest,  the  god  of  day, — 

His  brows  enwreath'd  with  beams  of  wavy  gold, — 

And  Night's  fair  queen,  and  stars  a  myriad  host. 

These  set  He  in  the  heaven's  boundless  dome, 

The  Sun  to  hold  dominion  o'er  the  day, 

The  Moon  and  countless  stars  the  night  to  rule, 

And  spread  their  genial  rays  on  all  the  world. 

Omnipotence  his  handy  work  reviewed 

And  saw  'twas  good ; — thus  did  the  fourth  day  pass. 

Once  more  th'  Almighty  sent  His  fiat  forth, 
And  river,  lake,  and  ocean  teem'd  with  life. 
The  huge  Leviathan  his  sable  length 
Roll'd  through  the  limpid  waters  ;  and  the  caves 
Of  ocean  glitter'd  with  their  gorgeous  gems  ; 
Birds,  too,  of  varied  plumage,  fill'd  the  air, 
And  gleeful  sung  to  Him  who  gave  them  life, 
In  strains  mellifluous  their  songs  of  love. 
Then  did  Jehovah  in  His  goodness  bless 
The  wanderers  of  ocean  and  of  air, 
And  bade  them  fruitful  be  and  multiply. 
Such  was  the  fifth  day's  work  of  Deity. 

Yet  once  again  Jehovah's  awful  voice 
Broke  the  deep  stillness  of  th'  unfinish'd  scene, 
And  earth  brought  forth  its  roving  denizens. 
Cattle,  and  creeping  thing,  and  rav'ning  beast 
Rose  from  their  parent  dust  endow'd  with  life. 
And  sported  each  with  each,  or  lay  them  down, 
Dress'd  in  primeval  innocence,  together. 
Not  yet  nor  dews  nor  cooling  rains  had  spread 
Their  fertilizing  influence  o'er  the  land, — 
Nor  was  there  one  its  fecund  breast  to  till ; 
For  man,  Creation's  lord,  was  not  then  made, — 
But  from  the  earth  went  up  a  heavy  mist, 
And  fell  again  in  showers  upon  the  ground, 
Giving  new  life  to  herb,  and  fruit,  and  flower. 
Then,  in  His  wisdom's  plenitude,  proud  Man 


94  BUDS    AND    FLOWERS. 

Did  Deity  call  forth  to  light  and  life  : 

And  planted  He,  in  Eden's  smiling  vale, — 

Towards  that  point  from  whence  ascends  the  sun, — 

A  garden  with  the  fairest  bowers  adorn'd, 

And  there,  to  keep  it,  put  the  man  He'd  form'd. 

There  wander'd  he  in  happiness,  alone, — 

A  being  pure  in  heart,  and  void  of  guile, 

Creation's  master,  and  her  noblest  work, — 

Until  that  God  by  whose  all-powerful  hand 

And  after  whose  bright  image  he  was  made, 

Sent  him  fond  Eve,  the  fairest  of  his  works. 

Then  look'd  He  round,  the  holy,  and  the  high, 

Upon  His  labour  done,  and  saw  'twas  good. 

The  sixth  day  now  had  pass'd  ;  the  seventh  came  ; 

Jehovah  rested  from  his  mighty  work, 

And  as  a  day  of  holy  rest  to  all, 

Did  He  that  Sabbath  bless  and  sanctify. 


I  would  I  were  a  moon-beam  bright, 
I'd  leave  the  blue  and  starry  skies, 
And  round  thy  dark  and  lovely  eyes 

Would  play  the  livelong  night. 

I  would  I  were  a  zephyr  free, 

I'd  woo  each  flower,  rich  and  rare, 
And  on  my  silken  wings  would  bear 

Its  sweet  perfumes  to  thee. 

I  would  I  were  a  sun-beam,  no, 
The  sun  himself  I  would  I  were, 
I'd  revel  in  that  bosom  fair, 

And  melt  those  hills  of  snow. 

Then,  from  its  casket  would  I  steal 
That  gentle  heart, — a  purer  gem 
Ne'er  deck'd  a  monarch's  diadem, — 

And  on  it  set  a  lover's  seal. 


BUDS    AND    FLOWERS. 


Let  harp  and  timbrel  sound, 
And  anthems  to  our  king, 
Let  all  the  earth  around 
With  cheerful  bosoms  sing. 
We  offer  at  His  shrine 
No  goats  nor  fatted  kine, 
But  hearts  replete  with  adoration, — 
The  brightest  and  the  best  oblation, — 
Precious  ever  in  his  eyes  ; 
Offerings  he  will  not  despise. 
Praise  Him  skies  in  beauty  bow'd  ; 

Kiver,  sea,  and  fountain, 
Gorgeous  rainbow,  fleecy  cloud, 
Verdant  plain  and  mountain  ; 
Every  living  thing, 
To  your  heavenly  king, — 
Who  was,  and  is,  and  is  to  be, — 
Chaunt  aloud  your  minstrelsy. 

He  who  hung  on  Calvary, 

Wounded,  pale,  and  gory, 
Sits  enrob'd  in  majesty 

In  the  realms  of  glory. 
Oh  !  was  not  that  a  love  sublime 
Of  Him  who  gave  His  only  son, 
The  pure,  the  meek,  the  lowly  one, 
To  die,  that  bosoms  fraught  with  crime 
Might  in  His  blood  be  purified  ! 
What  love  was  that  of  Him  who  died 
A  death,  the  thought  of  which  impels 
A  sigh  from  breasts  where  virtue  dwells  ! 
Praise  Him,  skies  in  beauty  bow'd  ; 

River,  sea,  and  fountain, 
Gorgeous  rainbow,  fleecy  cloud, 
Verdant  plain  and  mountain ; 


96  BUDS    AND    FLOWERS. 

Every  living  thing, 
To  your  heavenly  king, — 
Who  was,  and  is,  and  is  to  be, — 
Chaunt  aloud  your  minstrelsy. 


I  had  a  dream, — a  pleasant  dream, — 

It  linger'd  night  and  day 
Upon  my  mind  for  many  weeks, 

But  it  has  pass'd  away, 
And  left  my  heart  a  prey  to  woe, 
To  anguish  such  as  few  may  know 

Yet,  well  do  I  remember  now 
That  bright,  entrancing  dream, — 

For  'twas  no  evanescent  thing, 
No  winter's  sunset  beam 

That  o'er  the  brow  of  parting  day 

A  moment  plays,  and  fades  away. 

It  was  a  dream, — but  'twas  not  of 
Those  fleeting  things  and  vain, 

Which  mirthful  Fancy,  in  our  sleep, 
Enweaves  around  the  brain; 

Nay,  waking,  sleeping,  night  and  day, 

My  bosom  own'd  its  soothing  sway, 

Ah  !  never  shall  I  know  again 
So  bright,  so  sweet  a  dream  : 

And  while  it  linger'd,  calmly  by, 
As  some  unruffled  stream, 

The  sea  of  life  serenely  roll'd 

Its  fickle  tide  o'er  sands  of  gold. 


-BUDS    AND    FLOWERS.  07 

Long  have  I  striven  to  efface 

That  dream  from  mem'ry's  scroll ; 
To  banish  from  my  thoughts  a  thing 

Engraven  on  my  soul ; 
For  well  I  know  'twere  worse  than  vain 
To  cherish  that  which  brings  me  pain. 

I've  sought  to  banish  from  my  mind 

That  dream  so  passing  fair ; 
But,  ah  !  each  effort  only  serves 

To  fix  it  deeper  there. 
'Twere  useless  all, — 'twere  easier,  far, 
From  yonder  sky  to  pluck  a  star. 

Thy  person,  virtues,  dearest,  are, 

Made  up  the  phantasy 
Of  that  sweet  dream  to  which  thro'  life 

Shall  cling  my  memory. 

Days,  months, — aye  !  years,  may  roll,  and  yet 
That  dream  I  never  shall  forget. 


Give  me  to  drink !  but  let  it  be 
Cold  water,  from  pollution  free  ; 
(No  poison  with  its  current  blent, 

The  brain  to  fire,  the  soul  to  dim  ;) 
The  clear  and  sparkling  element 

That  bubbles  o'er  some  fountain's  brim. 

Of  wine,  the  merry  bacchanal, 
In  numbers  light  and  musical, 

From  night  till  dawn,  from  dawn  till  night, 

With  hiccough  chorusses  may  sing  ; 
But  give  me  water,  pure  and  bright, 

Forth  gushing  from  some  chrystal  spring. 
13 


98  BUDS      AND     FLOWERS. 

Give  me  to  drink  !  but  let  the  cup 

Be  filled  with  that  which,  gurgling  up, 
As  cold  as  snow  on  Hecla's  side, 

Is  filter'd  through  earth's  bosom  green, 
And  kisses  with  its  silver  tide 

The  flow'rs  that  o'er  its  surface  lean. 

There  is  no  poison  there  :  a  child 
May  quaff,  unharmed,  its  current  mild. 
There  lies  no  serpent  coil'd  beneath 

The  mimic  waves  that  round  it  roll, 
Her  folds  about  the  heart  to  wreathe, 
And  pour  her  venom  on  the  soul. 

Oh,  would  that  all,  who  now  are  bond 

To  curst  Intemp'rance,  might  respond, 

"  Give  me  to  drink  !  but  let  it  be 

The  clear  and  sparkling  element, 
Cold  water,  from  pollution  free  ; 
No  poison  with  its  current  blent." 


Hail  to  thee,  Ocean,  as  in  days  gone  by 

Thunder  thy  wild  waves  on  the  rock-bound  shore, 

Or  throw  their  blue  and  crested  heads  on  high, 
And,  big  with  emulation,  strive  to  soar 
E'en  to  that  graceful  concave  stretching  o'er 

Thy  azure  bosom  ;  and  the  slumb'ring  soul, 

Rous'd  by  thy  warblings,  wakes  to  scenes  of  yore ; 

Again  fond  Memory  grasps  her  chequer'd  scroll, 

And  points,  with  smiling  lip,  to  happy  boyhood's  goal. 

Thou  art  the  same,  O  !  Ocean, — on  thy  breast 

Time's  hand  no  change  perceptible  hath  wrought,— 

Still  roll  thy  billows,  in  their  beauty  drest, 

As  when  this  heart,  with  boyhood's  visions  fraught, 


BUDS    AND    FLOWERS. 

Beat  high  with  hope,  and  many  a  joyous  thought, 
Like  sun-beams  play'd  youth's  waysides  green  around ; 

And  'neath  the  smiles  of  friends  I  knew  of  nought 
To  dim  the  shine  of  those  fair  flow'rs  that  crown'd 
My  life,  and  love  was  not,  as  now,  an  empty  sound. 

As  erst  I  saw  them,  o'er  thy  boundless  waste, 
Tall  ships  and  proud  are  wending  on  their  way 

From  clime  to  clime,  their  courses  all  untrac'd, 

As  speed  they  onward  through  thy  gladsome  spray, 
On  peaceful  missions  some,  and  some  in  battle  'ray, 

Out  from  its  tapering  spars,  each  flowing  sail, 
White  as  the  snow  flake  'neath  the  orb  of  day, 

Or  kiss'd  by  beams  from  Cynthia's  halo  pale, 

Swells  to  the  ruffian  blast,  or  summer's  mellow  gale. 

O'er  thee,  O  !  Ocean,  often  have  I  bent 

From  the  dark  vessel's  prow,  and  watch'd  the  play 

Of  thy  blue  waves,  of  beauty  redolent, 

As  roll'd  they  'neath  the  first  bright  beams  of  day 
And  when,  of  sun-light  the  departing  ray 

Had  shot  its  fading  lustre  up  the  west, 

And  rob'd  in  burning  gems,  a  bright  array, 

Night's  chaste  brow'd  empress  rear'd  her  silver  crest, 

Pouring  a  flood  refulgent  o'er  thy  furrow'd  breast. 

Earth  has  its  beauties,  but  to  those  alone 

Who  roam  thy  azure  bosom,  is  it  given 
To  know  the  wond'rous  works  of  Him  whose  throne 

Is  based  upon  the  sapphire  vault  of  heaven. 

They  see  his  awful  potency,  when  riven 
By  tempest  gales,  and  onward  fiercely  roll'd, 

Or  upward,  by  his  might  resistless  driven, 
E'en  from  their  cavern'd  deeps,  thy  waves  unfold, 
Garner'd  in'coral  cells,  vast  hoards  of  wealth  untold. 

And  who,  the  plodders  of  the  land  among,  ' 
Hath  seen  the  red  brow'd  charioteer  of  day 

Put  back  the  curtains  round  his  pillow  hung, 
And  up  the  orient,  from  thy  billowy  way, 


lOO  BUDS    AND    FLOWERS. 

Urge  his  wing'd  coursers,  clad  in  harness  gay ; 
And,  speeding  in  his  tireless  career, 

Flake  deep  with  gold  the  clouds  of  morning  grey, 
Or  'neath  thy  breast  beheld  him  disappear, 
To  brighten  for  a  space  another  hemisphere  ? 

But  veil  thy  scroll  my  mem'ry,  it  were  vain, 
Aye  !  painful,  scenes  and  hours  to  review, 

The  peers  of  which  we  ne'er  may  know  again. 
I  leave  thee,  Ocean ! — to  thy  waters  blue    • 
And  fairy  isles,  where  oft,  with  bosoms  true, 

In  by-past  years,  I've  wandered  in  glee, 
I  now  must  say  a  long — a  last  adieu. 

Farewell,  bright  Ocean,  thou,  as  freedom  free, 

An  emblem  in  thy  might  of  Him  who  fashion'd  thee. 


Turn  thou  away,  my  soul,  from  this  vain  earth  ; 
Its  pleasures  are  but  fleeting  phantoms  all — 
From  its  broad  midst  to  either  horizon, 
All  it  contains,  of  worthless  or  of  worth, 
Of  foul  or  fair,  of  frail  mortality 
The  imprint  bears. 

The  civic  chaplet  set 
Around  the  brow  of  lofty  intellect, — 
Beauty's  soft  lip, — Fame's  brilliant  coronal, — 
The  envied  meed  by  war-worn  heroes  won, — 
Wealth's  silvery  wreath, — the  coroneted  head 
And  sceptred  hand  of  Power, — all  must  fade. 
Thy  fragile  dwelling,  too,  will  know  decay, 
And  to  the  dust,  from  whence  it  came,  return ; 


RUDS    AND    FLOWERS.  101 

But  thou  !  thou  art  immortal,  O  !  my  soul, 

And  when  a  million  myriads  of  the  span 

That  bounds  poor  man's  existence  shall  have  pass'd, 

Thou  wilt  remain,  the. same  as  at  that  hour 

When  death  shook  down  thy  tenement  of  clay, 

And  thou,  mysterious  essence,  wing'd  thy  flight, 

To  dwell,  for  ages,  incomputable, 

In  those  bright  mansions  fashion'd  not  with  hands, 

Or  shriek  thy  agonies  in  hopeless  woe. 

That  great  first  Power  by  which  all  things  were  made  ; 
That  sovereign  truth  which  no  mutation  knows ; 
That  wisdom,  boundless  and  inscrutable  ; 
Which,  as  the  sun  illumes  this  nether  world, 
Dispenses  its  pure  light  on  that  endow'd 
With  Reason's  heavenly  ray,  hath  form'd  thee,  soul, 
An  immaterial  and  eternal  thing. 

Turn  thou  away  then,  from  this  world  of  care, 
And  grief,  and  shame,  and  want,  and  withering  woe. 
Gaze  deep  into  that  realm  where  perfect  love, 
Impersonated  in  a  triune.  God, 
Sits  high  enthroned,  diffusing  o'er  the  spheres, 
Call'd  into  being  by  his  awful  voice, 
With  lavish  hand  the  treasures  of  his  grace. 

Hast  thou  not  heard  how  died  the  anointed  One  ? 
The  Christ,— the  spirit  of  prophetic  love, — 
Whose  day  the  faithful  patriarch  saw  and  joy'd  : 
And  of  whose  coming,  sufferings  and  death, 
Inspir'd  by  heaven,  the  royal  minstrel  sung  ? 
Look  thou  on  yonder  mount, — 'tis  Calvary,^— 
There  bore  He,  in  his  body,  on  the  tree, 
Thy  load  of  sin, — and  there  in  anguish  died 
That  thou,  and  such  as  thou,  might  plead  his  name, 
And  win  an  heirdom  to  eternal  life. 
Kneel  there,  revolter — He  is  Love, — the  blood 
That  gushes  from  his  wounded  side  shall  lave, 
And  make  thee  clean  from  every  fearful  stain. 


102  BUDS    AND    FLOWERS. 


I  want  a  beau !  I  want  a  beau  ! 

'Tis  sweet, — at  least  they  tell  me  so, — 

To  waltz,  or  walk,  or  sail,  or  row 

With  him  you  mean  to  marry. 
And  then, — but,  O  !  it  must  be  sweet ! — 
To  have  one  kneeling  at  one's  feet, 
And  hear  him  there  his  vows  repeat ! — 

By  Jove,  but  I  will  marry  ! 

I'm  old  enough  to  have  a  beau ! 
And  oft  I  tell  my  mamma  so  ! 
As  often  she  replies,  "  oh,  no  ! 

You  are  too  young  to  marry  !" 
Odd  zooks !  'tis  always  thus  with  those 
Within  whose  bosom  coldly  flows 
The  streams  of  love,  to  belles  and  beaux, 

Who  have  a  mind  to  marry. 

Maids  who  have  had  their  hearts  for  sale 
Some  forty  years, — whose  charms  are  stale, — 
May, — and  they  have  a  cause  to, — rail 

At  those  who  wish  to  marry ; 
But  ma'as  who,  by  experience  taught, 
Know  all  the  bliss  with  which  is  fraught 
The  wedded  life, — I  think  should  nought 

Object  when  girls  would  marry. 

I've  got  a  beau  !  I've  got  a  beau  ! 

The  knowledge  makes  my  bosom  glow; 

And,  blow  it  high,  or  blow  it  low, 

I  am  resolved  to  marry. 

I've  roamed  the  squares, — I've  walk'd  the  street, — 
I've  been  to  ev'ry  fam'd  retreat, 
But  never  saw  I  one  so  neat, 

So  just  the  thing  to  marry. 


BUDS    AND    FLOWERS.  103 

I  know  he  loves  me,  and  he  came 
This  very  night  to  tell  his  flame — 
He  call'd  me  every  pretty  name, 

And  ask'd  me  if  I'd  marry. 
I  blush'd, — as  every  modest  maid 
On  such  occasions  will, — and  said, 
"  Dear  sir,  I  feel  somewhat  afraid 

I  am  loo  young  to  marry." 

He  press'd  his  suit, — what  could  I  do  ? 

I  answered,  "  take  me," — (so  would  you,) — 

And,  truth  to  say,  I  think  there's  few, 

Who  can,  but  that  will  marry. 
The  Rubicon  is  passed, — what  then  ? 
Why  I  must  wed  the  best  of  men, 
And  trust  I  shan't  regret  the  when 

I  first  resolv'd  to  marry. 


That  strain, — O,  breathe  that  witching  strain 

Of  dulcet  numbers  once  again, 

To  pleasant  hours  of  years  gone  by, 

Its  tones  have  woke  my  memory. 

O,  breathe  it  once  again  !  its  words 
Have  stirr'd  my  bosom's  finest  chords  ; 
Back  brings  it  girlhood's  hours  again, — 
Breathe,  breathe,  once  more  that  witching  strain. 


104  BUDS    AND    FLOWERS, 


Hail  once  again,  fair  city  of  my  birth, 

Thou  bright  Elysium  of  my  infancy ; 
Home  of  my  boyhood,  fairest  gem  of  earth, 

Scene  of  my  youthful  days,  all  hail  to  thee  ! 
'Twas  here  beneath  these  blue  and  sunny  skies, 

.  Among  these  flow'ry  vales,  with  dew  impearl'd, 
And  groves,  umbrageous,  that  on  these  eyes 

First  broke  the  sunlight  of  this  charming  world. 
Years,  weary  years,  borne  down  the  stream  of  Time, 

Have  sought  the  ocean  of  eternity  ; 
And  'neath  the  suns  of  many  a  cloudless  clime, — 

A  reckless  wand'rer  of  the  land  and  sea, — 
My  path  hath  been,  and  o'er  my  soul  hath  pass'd, 

Blighting  each  bud  of  hope  and  promise  there, 
Sin's  turgid  wave  and  Obloquy's  chill  blast, 

Since  last  I  gazed  upon  thy  features  fair, 
And  gaz'd  to  love, — but  ever  in  the  hush 

Of  midnight,  or  the  hum  of  day,  where'er 
It  was  my  destiny  to  roam,  would  rush 

Upon  my  mind  sweet  thoughts  of  scenes  so  dear. 
Aye  !  distance,  time,  and  absence  all  have  fail'd 

The  blaze  of  Memory's  glowing  torch  to  mar  ; 
And  still,  its  ev'ry  radiant  ray  unpaled, 

In  all  its  pristine  glory  shines  her  star. 

Oh,  'tis  a  thrilling  ecstasy  to  one 

Who  hath  the  love  of  country  in  his  soul, 
When  lonely  wandering  in  some  far  off  zone, 

To  re-peruse  fond  mem'ry's  brilliant  scroll, 
And  there  to  read,  mayhap  of  by-gone  hours, 

When,  with  a  bosom  redolent  of  joy, 
His  pathway  strewn  with  Hope's  delusive  flowers, 

He  trod  the  world  a  careless  hearted  boy. 
Oft  have  I  roam'd  beneath  as  bright  a  dome 

As  that  which  in  its  beauty  bends  .o'er  thee, 


BUDS    AND    FLOWERS.  105 

My  native  land,  my  happy  childhood's  home, 

But  still  the  loveliest,  fairest  scene  to  me 
Was  that  which  mem'ry  pictur'd  of  the  spot 

O'er  which,  in  happier  hours  my  footsteps  fell ; 
Nor  was  there  aught  that  had  the  power  to  blot, 

Or  dissipate  the  sketch  I  lov'd  so  well. 


How  much  of  joy,  how  much  of  grief 
A  glance  at  Memory's  chequered  leaf 

In  many  a  bosom  wakes  : 
Here  Sorrow's  mist  the  page  enshrouds ; 
There  Pleasure's  brilliance  thro'  the  clouds, 

Like  summer's  sun-light  breaks. 
We  read  it  o'er,  and  on  the  heart 
Falls,  now  a  balm,  and  now  a  smart. 

What  wonders  might  that  motley  sheet, — 
Could  it  but  all  it  bears  repeat, — 

To  human  ears  unfold  ; 
What  tales  of  love,  of  crime,  of  woe, 
Could  it  in  one  brief  moment  show, 

Which  must  remain  untold. 
Ah  !  it  is  well  the  burthen'd  soul 
Lies  bondaged  to  the  will's  control. 

Their  lives  not  one,  whose  memory, 
However  pure  its  page  may  be, 

Retains  no  fadeless  trace 
Of  word,  or  deed,  that  he  would  not, 
Were  his  the  power,  be  glad  to  blot 

And  utterly  efface, 

Though  that  it  bears  may  ne'er  be  known 
To  other  bosom  than  his  own. 
14 


106  BUDS    A  NO    FLOWERS. 

The  memory  is  like  those  spots 
Which  here  and  there  a  rank  weed  dots 

With  many  a  flower  fair  ; 
And  it  were  passing  sweet  to  cull 
Those  flowers  bright  and  beautiful 

Exhaling  perfume  there. 
Poor,  poor  indeed,  the  memory 
That  hath  no  sunny  spots,  must  be. 


Weep'st  thou  Columbia  ?  is  thy  bright  eye  dim 

With  heaven^born  affection's  pearly  tear  ? 
Say,  dost  thou  weep  the  memory  of  him 

Whose  ashes  lie  unurn'd,  unhonour'd  here  ? 
That  son  whose  noble  deeds  are  placed  with  those 

Of  Vernon's  chief,  and  Monticello's  sage  ; 
Whose  envied  name  in  burning  splendor  glows 

Among  the  best  on  hist'ry's  sun-lit  page  ? 
Nay,  thou  art  like  the  arid  sands  that  burn 

In  eastern  climes,  the  renovating  shower 
Imbibing  greedily,  but  in  return 

Yielding  nor  blade  of  grass,  nor  fruit,  nor  flower. 
Away,  then,  with  those  hypocritic  tears  ! 

Would'st  thou  insult  the  living  and  the  dead  ? 
Go  lean  upon  some  sculptur'd  urn  that  rears 

Its  graceful  form  o'er  those  in  Folly's  bed, 
And  weep  there,  till  thine  eye-balls  ache  and  glaze ; — 

For  them,  methinks,  thy  pleasure  'tis  to  braid 
The  laurel  crown,  while  live  they,  and  the  bays 

When  nature's  debt  thy  favourites  have  paid  ; — 
But  come  not  here,  thy  seeming  grief  to  pour 

Above  the  mould' ring  clay  of  him  who  rose 
Triumphant,  God-like,  'mid  the  conflict's  roar, 

And  hurl'd  destruction  on  thy  vaunting  foes, 


BUDS    AND    FLOWERS.  107 

When  stern  Impressment  trod,  with  iron  heel, 

Thy  peaceful  trader's  decks,  and,  shame  to  say, 
E'en  unresisted,  paced  one  gallant  keel 

Where  war's  dark  ordnance  stood  in  battle  'ray. 
Alas,  that  day,  Columbia,  for  thy  fame  ! 

In  thy  own  silver  waters,  too,  to  quail 
Before  the  foe,  and  thy  proud  oriflame 

Beneath  the  flaunting  cross  of  Albion  vail  I— 
But  thou'rt  a  loving  mother,  for  the  son 

Who  threw  the  first  foul  stain  upon  thy  flag, 
Who  saw  a  slave,  a  tyrant's  myrmidon, 

Load  with  oppression's  galling  gyves,  and  drag 
Thy  boldest  tars  from  every  binding  tie, 

Home,  country,  children,  friends ;  and  by  whose  hand 
'Twas  thy  Decatur's  hapless  fate  to  die, 

Thou'st  seated  'mong  the  proudest  of  thy  land. 
Where  is  thy  gratitude  to  him  who  bore, 

In  manhood's  flower,  thy  brilliant  galaxy 
Along  the  wave,  and  cull'd  from  Afric's  shore 

A  wreath  to  deck  the  altar  of  the  free  ? 
Who  shook  a  pearl  from  Albion's  diadem, — 

When  from  the  Macedonian's  peak  came  down 
The  ruddy  cross,  before  the  stars  that  gem 

Thy  flag, — to  brighten  Freedom's  laurel  crown  ? 
For  him  thou  canst  do  nothing ; — earth  can  add 

No  lustre  to  the  brightness  of  the  sky 
Arching  Elysian  fields,  where,  richly  clad, 

Roam  those  who  for  their  country  do  and  die  ; — 
But  wipe  those  hypocritic  tears  !  begone  ! 

And  view  his  aged  spouse,  whose  nuptial  morn 
Was  clouded,  ere  the  beams  upon  its  dawn 

Had  pass'd,  and  given  place  to  brilliance  worn 
By  Love's  full  orb.     Go,  view  her  state,  I  say, 

And  if  thou  hast  a  soul,  thou  ingrate  queen, 
Let  Bounty  ope  thy  hand,  her  griefs  allay, 

That  down,  her  day  star,  calmly  and  serene, 
May  sink  the  horizon  of  Time  beneath, 

And,  'stead  of  fearful  malisons  on  thee 


108  BUDS    AND    FLOWERS. 

For  thy  ingratitude,  her  parting  breath 

Burthen'd  with  blessings  on  thy  name  may  be, 
Columbia,  look'st  thou  not  with  pride  upon 

That  golden  tablet,  where  the  siren  Fame 
Has  sung  of  gallant  deeds,  of  battles  won 

Beneath  the  folds  of  thy  bright  oriflame  ?  $$ 

Aye  !  dost  thou,  yet  the  high  of  soul  who  fought, 

Bled,  conquer'd,  died,  that  thou  might'st  fairest  stand 
-.     "Among  earth's  lordliest  nations  :  those  who  brought 

Unsullied  back  to  its  own  native  strand 
Thy  meteor  flag,  from  many  a  reeking  field 

And  blood-dyed  wave,  where  fierce  Bellona  spurr'd 
Her  fiery  barb,  and  Briton's  squadrons  reel'd 

Before  the  free,  with  banner  dimm'd  and  blurr'd, 
Forgotten,  sleep  their  last,  long -sleep  unsung  : — 

And  many  an  orphan'd  child,  and  widow'd  -wife, 
By  Penury's  with'ring  hand,  their  bosoms  wrung, 

Bereav'd  of  sire,  and  husband,  in  the  strife 
That  seal'd  thy  fame,  by  thee  neglected,  tread 

Adown  the  furrow'd  path  of  life,  and  brood 
In  wasting  sorrow  o'er  their  guardian's  dead, 

Cursing,  the  while,  thy  black  ingratitude. 
Columbia,  if  thou  would'st  that  other  lands 

With  admiration  on  thy  fame  should  gaze  j — 
Would'st  thou  that  hearts  of  steel  and  ready  hands 

Should  dare  for  thee  the  battle's  fiercest  blaze  ; — 
WouTdst  thou,  that  of  thy  glory  bards  should  sing, 

And  on  thy  soil  kind  heaven  her  blessings  pour, — 
Thou  must  be  grateful,  then,  to  those  who  bring, 

To  those  who  have  brought  to  thy  smiling  shore 
A  shadeless  glory,  glory  such  as  none 
Of  all  the  lands  beneath  the  changeless  sun, 
By  flood,  or  field,  by  their  high  deeds  have  won. 


BUDS    AND    FLOWERS.  109 


Wake !  wake  the  lyre,  tune  every  chord 
To  Him  at  whose  Almighty  word 

This  bright  and  jqyous  earth, 
And  yon  cerulean  concave,  hung 
With  everlasting  lustres  sprung 

From  nothingness 'to  birth. 

Wake!  wake  the  lyre  to  Him  who  gave 
Its  limits  to  the  flashing  wave 

And  at  whose  sovereign  will 
Its  hoary-crested  waters  rise 
In  liquid  mountains  to  the  skies, 

Or  slumber  as  the  rill. 

Wake  !  wake  the  lyre,  by  youth  and  eld 
Let  anthems  to  his  name  be  swell'd 

Who  pours  upon  our  soil 
The  vivifying  dew  and  rain, 
And  with  full  shocks  of  golden  grain 

Rewards  the  reaper's  toil. 

Wake  !  wake  the  lyre,  'tis  gratitude 
That  bids  us  sing  to  Him  whose  blood, 

In  dark  Gethsemane, 
As  water  ooz'd  from  every  pore ; 
And  who  for  sin  the  torture  bore 

On  rifted  Calvary. 

Wake  !  wake  the  lyre, — 0,  let  us  sing 
To  Him  from  whom  all  blessings  spring  : 

We  hear  the  feather'd  clan, 
At  noon  and  eve,  in  bower  and  tree, 
Pour  out  their  dulcet  minstrelsy, — 

And  should  not  sinful  man  ? 


110  BUDS    AND    FLOWERS. 


When  the  golden  wreath  of  wealth 

Round  the  brow  is  twining, 
When  Prosperity's  bright  sun 

In  life's  sky  is  shining, 
While  we  wander  Pleasure's  maze, 

Crushing  flowers  scatter'd 
O'er  its  labarynthine  paths, 

How  caress'd  and  flatter'd. 

When  the  golden  wreath  of  wealth 

From  the  brow  has  faded, 
When  Adversity's  dark  clouds 

Life's  fair  sky  have  shaded, 
While  we  wander  Sorrow's  maze, 

All  its  pathway's  skirted 
With  the  piercing  thorns  of  care, 

How  despis'd,  deserted. 


We  met,  and  knew  the  exquisite,  unutterable  thrills 
Which  move  the  hearts  of  those  who  love,  the  cloyless  bliss  that  fills 
The  bosoms  of  a  twain  who  deem  the  witching  ectasy 
Engender'd  by  a  burning  kiss,  life's  veriest  luxury. 


We  parted,  but  to  those  who  lov'd  as  we  had  lov'd,  alone, 
The  whelming  grief,  the  anguish  of  that  parting  can  be  known. 
Yes,  parted  we,  to  meet  no  more,  until  our  barques  shall  be, 
Before  the  frigid  blast  of  death,  borne  down  Eterne's  sea. 


BUDSANDFLOWERS.  Ill 


A  modest  rose,  the  garden's  gem, 
Hung  blooming  on  its  verdant  stem, 
As  up  the  flaming  horizon, 
In  all  his  glory  walk'd  the  sun  : 
But  ere  that  sun  had  hid  again 
His  golden  crest  beneath  the  main, 
The  canker  worm  had  banqueted 
Upon  that  rose's  heart, — 'twas  dead. 
And  soon  its  leaves  upon  the  ground 
By  ruffian  hands  were  scattered  round, 
While  passers  by  look'd  down  with  scorn 
Upon  a  thing  so  bright  at  morn. 
Thus  is't  with  thee,  thou  fairest  gem 
Gracing  earth's  flowery  diadem, 
Thou  damask  of  its  garden  wild, 
Fond  woman,  when  by  man  beguil'd. 


Adown  the  west  to  ocean's  breast 

The  day-god  spurs  his  barbs, 
And  half  the  sky  in  drapery 

Of  gold  and  crimson  garbs  ; 
But  soon  away,  with  passing  day, 

Those  gorgeous  hues  will  fade, 
And  night  around  the  blue  profound 

Dispense  her  dusky  shade. 

Behold  him  now  around  the  brow 
Of  yonder  mountain  twine, 

As  westward  speed  his  flaming  steeds, 
A  halo  all  divine. 


112  BUDS    AND    FLOWERS. 

On  dell  and  hill  and  glassy  rill,     j» 
And  flower  enamell'd  mead; 

On  bower  and  tree  and  brawling  sea, 
His  opal  beams  are  spread. 

A  coronal,  ephemreal 

As  youth's  bright  hopes,  is  on 

The  sky  and  sea,  and  bush  and  tree- 
E'en  while  we  gaze  'tis  gone. 

Beneath  the  main,  to  rise  again, 
Hath  set  the  glorious  sun, 

And  in  the  sky  their  revelry 
The  stars  have  now  begun. 


OF     THI     FOUBTH     A  IT  D     FIFTH     VERSES     OF     THE     95lH     PSALM 

Of  smiling  earth  the  utmost  ends — 
The  desert  and  the  garden  spread 

With  lovely  flowers,  the  mount  that  blends 
With  heaven's  blue  its  hoary  head, 

The  gem  lit  cave,  the  flaming  mine, — 

He  holds  within  His  hand  divine. 

The  boundless  sea  is  His, — He  made 

Its  sunless  dells,  its  dark  denies, 
And  purple  bosom'd  waves  that  braid 

Their  snow  wreathes  round  its  fairy  isles  ; 
And,  with  its  joyous  scenes,  the  land 
Came  perfect  from  his  plastic  hand. 


DUDS    AND    FLOWERS.  113 


He  sleeps — Creation's  lord— the  noblest  work 
Of  that  Almighty  One  at  whose  command, 
From  nothingness,  to  light  and  beauty  sprung, 
In  all  its  parts  complete,  this  glorious  world. 
His  faultless  limbs,  than  which,  from  Paria's  stone, 
The  sculptor's  chisel  fairer  never  form'd  ; 
And  worthy,  all,  of  that  Great  Architect 
Who,  in  conception  infinite,  divine, 
Moulded  and  smooth' d  them  to  their  beauteous  shape, 
Beneath  the  shades  of  Eden's  blooming  groves 
Recumbent  lie  and  press  Elysian  flowers  : 
And  as  the  jocund  breezes  gambol  round 
His  fair  proportions,  shaking  from  their  wings 
A  grateful  aroma,  and  in  their  play 
Caress  his  balmy  cheek,  or  wave  the  curls, 
Ambrosial,  exhuberant,  on  a  brow 
Stamp'd  with  the  imprint  bright  of  Deity, 
Smiles,  like  the  sun-beams  of  an  April's  sky 
On  beds  o£  roses,  dance  about  his  lips 
And  speak  the  dreams  delightful  Fancy  weaves : 
Love's  burning  pulses  stir  within  his  breast, 
And,  blandly  as  the  lightest  breeze' that  wakes 
The  melody  of  an  ^Eolean's  chords, 
A  joyous  vision,  antedaling  bliss, 
Sweeps  its  sweet  phantasma  across  his  soul, 
While,  from  his  side,  a  creature  still  more  fair 
Than  his  majestic  self,  with  pliant  limb 
And  form  ethereal,  at  Jehovah's  word, 
Rises  to  life  to  cheer  his  solitude. 
In  wavy  tresses,  down  her  snowy  neck 
And  o'er  her  undulating  bosom  glows, — 
Shading  the  rubies  on  each  ivory  crest, — 
Her  silky  hair,  as  with  elastic  step, 
A  beautiful  and  buoyant  thing,  she  treads 
15 


114  BUDS   AND   FLOWERS. 

The  thymy  margin  of  a  stream  and  views 
Her  charms,  undraperied,  in  its  limpid  tide. 
Now,  from  the  babbling  waters,  with  a  smile 
That  beautifies  the  lips  which  give  it  birth, 
And  tells,  though  mute  it  be,  in  plainer  terms 
Than  the  most  sweet,  impassion'd  language  can, 
How  loves  delirium  warms  her  every  vein, 
She  turns  and  looks  on  man.     He,  waking,  leaves 
His  flowery  couch  and  scans  her  graceful  form — 
Surprise,  awe,  admiration,  and  desire 
In  quick  transition  rising  in  his  soul.— 
And  now,  his  arm  her  waist  encircled  round, 
Their  brilliant  eyes  discoursing  love  the  while, 
O'er  nature's  velvet  carpeting  he  leads 
To  rosier  bowers,  the  Mother  of  Mankind. 


She  was  a  thing  so  witching  bright, 

One  would  have  thought  some  lovely  star 
Had  left  the  azure  fields  of  light, 

In  yonder  mystic  realms  afar, 
And  wandering  from  its  place  of  birth, 
To  mingle  with  the  things  of  earth, 
Had  borrow'd  her  form,  to  show 
Us  fading  mortals  here  below 

How  exquisitely  fair  are  they 
Who  tread  the  golden  dew, 

Where  beams  an]everlasting  day, 

And  skies  are  always  blue. 
Yes,  she  was  lovely,  man  ne'er  led 
A  chaster  thing  to  bridal  bed  : 

Youth  never  bent  the  knee 


BUDS    AND    FLOWERS.  115 

To  maid  with  loftier  virtues  blest, 
Or  form  and  face  so  amply  drest 

In  beauty's  drapery. 
The  brightest  Houri  'neath  the  skies 
Of  the  swart  Prophet's  paradise, 

Nor  Peri  of  the  sea, 
Fresh  risen  from  her  coral  grot 
Beneath  the  limpid  wave,  was  not 

So  beautiful  as  she. 

She  had  an  eye,— oh  !  tell  me  not 
Its  brilliance  e'er  can  be  forgot ' 
It  sparkled,  spoke,  was  eloquent, 

And  shed  a  softer  light 
Than  orbs  that  dot  the  firmament 

Upon  a  cloudless  night. 
('Twere  nothing  strange  for  eyes  like  that 
To  make  the  heart  go  pit-a-pat 

With  pulses  passing  sweet ; 
When  many  a  one  less  bright  by  half 
Has  seen  some  shallow  pated  calf 

Prone  at  its  owner's  feet.) 
But  'twas  magnificent,  that  eye, 

And  underneath  its  ivory  lid 

Was  rosy  Love,  now  seen,  now  hid, 
Indulging  in  his  revelry. 

And  dew-drop  never  hung 
On  rose-leaf  fair  as  was  her  cheek  ; 
And  when  the  beauty  deign'd  to  speak, — 
As  beauties  sometimes  will, — if  but 
To  show  their  lips  can  ope  and  shut, — 

The  music  of  her  tongue 
Was  richer  far  than  are  the  tones 

The  dying  swan  is  said  to  sing  ; 
And  sweetly  soothing  as  the  moans 

Of  ocean's  billows  wantoning 
O'er  weedy  rocks,  and  throwing  high 
Their  dappled  bosoms  to  the  sky, 
In  one  eternal  melody. 


116  B'UDS    AND    FLOWERS. 

I  saw  her  walk  a  garden,  where 

The  brightest  flowers  that  bloom 
In  painted  vase  and  rich  parterre, 
And  bed  and  bower,  gave  to  air 

Their  odorous  perfume. 
Her  brow  a  wreath  of  lotus  bound, 

And  downward  fell  her  glossy  curls, 
As  black  as  midnight's  shroud,  around 

A  neck  and  bosom'  white  as  pearls. 
If  brows, — and  who  will  doubt  they  do  ? 
I  cannot,  fair  ones,  nor  will  you, — 
Index  the  souls  which  they  enshrine, 
Then  Cava's  must  have  been  divine. 

And  as  she  moved,  a  fairy  thing, 

An  angel  in  degree, 
The  fountain  hush'd  its  murmuring  ; 
The  merry  mock-bird  ceas'd  to  sing 

His  mellow  notes  of  glee  : 

.  With  flowers  the  bee  left  gossiping, 
His  pinions  shook,  and  hover'd  round 
Her  dainty  lips,  forbidden  ground 

For  e'en  a  bee  to  tread  ; 

And  zeph'rus  from  his  purple  wing, 
Disdainfully,  the  aroma 
Of  bud  and  blossom  shook  away  ; 

The  moss-rose  hung  its  head  ;— 
The  lily  shut  its  snowy  cup, 

And  dahlias  of  every  hue, 

Red,  purple,  yellow,  white  and  blue 
Eclips'd  and  sham'd,  could  not  look  up  ; — 

And  peonies,  and  poppies  sheen, 

With  hyacinths  in  robes  of  green, 
And  tulips  in  their  pride, 

The  vain  and  scornful  things,  with  spleen    ^ 

And  envy  almost  died. 
Nor  did  the  modest  violet  dare 
To  flaunt  its  azure  foliage  there, 
But,  a  rough  bramble  hid  beneath, 


BUDS    AND    FLOWERS.  117 

Lay  close,  and  scarcely  dar'd  to  breathe 
-    In  sight  of  thing  so  fair  ; 
But  Cava  stoop'd, — for  Cava's  waist, 
Though  delicately  small  and  round, 
Was  not  with  cords  and  buckram  bound, — 
Snapt  near  the  root  its  stem  and  placed 

The  flower  in  her  hair. 
In  this  one  act  of  Cava's,  all 
My  readers,  old,  young,  tall  and  small, 

The  sober,  gay,  and  witty, 
May,  if  they  choose,  a  moral  read  ; — 

And  I  will  trace  it, 
If,  one  and  all,  they  are  agreed, — 

And  here  will  place  it, 

To  lengthen  out  my  ditty. 

Well,  here  it  is, — but  do  not  sneer, 

Because  the  metre  may  appear, 

To  you,  particularly  queer  ; — 

The  bard  who  paints  a  Venus, 
Above  all  others,  by  the  crowd 
Of  amateurs,  it  is  allow'd, 
(And  boobies  too,)  should  be  endow'd 

With  nature's  brightest  genus. 
It  matters  not  how  modesty 
Is  domicil'd,  or  in  what  guise 
The  maid  appears ; 

How  mothered,  or  how  sired ; 
Whether  'mid  scenes  of  misery 

She  has  a  home  ;  or  from  her  eyes 
Fall  sorrow's  tears  ; 

The  maid  must  be  admired. 

But,  hold  !  I  have  not  finish'd  yet ! 
Those  flowing  curls  of  glossy  jet ; 

That  neck,  and  bosom  fair  ; 
That  intellectual  brow  ;  that  eye  ; 

That  luscious  lip,  which  look'd  as  though 
Some  joyous  spirit  from  the  sky 

Had  snatch'd  the  vermil  from  its  bow 


118  BUDS    AND    FLOWERS. 

And  placed  the  colour  there, 
All,  join'd  together,  form  a  theme 
As  brilliant  as  an  angel's  dream, 
And  should  be  written  with  a  beam 
From  the  Empyrean, 

For,  with  a  quill  from  gooses  wing 

There  never  liv'd  the  man,^ 
Including  small  Tom  Moore  and  Byron, 
Who  've  many  a  damsels  heart  set  fire  on, 
And  from  the  sway  of  virtue  won  it, 
By  burning  roundalay  and  sonnet, — 

That  with  propriety  could  sing 

The  beauties  of  this  heavenly  thing. 
But  Cava,  though  she  seem'd  to  be 

A  being  of  celestial  birth, 
A  thing  of  immortality, 

Was  mortal,  as  all  are  of  earth. 

'Twas  on  a  cloudless  night  in  June, — 
In  all  her  loveliness,  the  moon 

From  her  aerial  bowers, 
Look'd  down  upon  the  smiling  earth, 
Where  all  was  redolent  of  mirth, 

And  incense  sweet  of  flowers, — 
I  saw  a  wreathe  of  roses  white 

Around  her  lovely  brow, 
And  heard  her  at  the  altar  plight, 

To  him  she  lov'd  the  vow 

To  serve,  love,  honour,  and  obey  : — 
But  ere  that  moon,  which  shone  so  bright 
On  happy  Cava's  bridal  night, 

From  yonder  arch  had  pass'd  away, 
The  chiming  bells  began  to  toll 
The  knell  of  her  departed  soul. 

The  lark  had  tuned  his  matin  lay, 
The  breezes  sigh'd  along  the  lea, 

And  gentle  birds  on  every  spray, 
Were  warbling  forth  their  melody, 


BUDS   AND    FLOWERS.  119 

When  mourning  friends  were  gathered 
To  take  their  last  look  of  the  dead  : 

And  one  seem'd  sadder  than  the  rest, — 
It  was  the  bridegroom,  and  above 
The  object  of  his  doating  love, 

He  bow'd  his  manly  form,  and  press'd 
Her  brow,  her  lip,  her  cheek,  her  eye, — 
Speaking  his  love's  intensity. — 

They  bore  her  to  the  noiseless  tomb, 
Whom  death  had  stricken  in  the  bloom 

Of  witching  womanhood. 
While  many  a  tear  drop  fell  around 
That  little  spot  of  hallow'd  ground, 

Not  one  of  all  who  stood 
Beside  that  grove,  but  whispered 
A  heart-warm  prayer  for  the  dead. 

But  how  did  Cava  die  ?     Did  death, 

And  the  dark,  gloomy  sepulchre 

In  terrors  clad  appear  to  her  ? 
Oh,  no  !  that  loved  one's  parting  breath 

Went  heavenward  burthen'd  with  a  song,— 

But  why  should  I  my  strain  prolong  ? — 

Fair  readers,  I  have  said  my  say, 
Some  stanzas  added  to  my  lay, 

And  you  with  white  lids  drooping 
O'er  eyes  made  up  of  light  and  love,— 
Beneath  their  charming  brows  above, — 

Should  now  to  bed  be  trooping, 
As  I  shall  do, — out  goes  the  light, — 
Sweet  sleep,  sweet  dreams  to  all — good  night ! 


120  BUDS    AND    FLOWERS. 


"  'Tis  greatly  wise  to  talk  with  our  past  hours."    YoirNa. 

Would  I  could  drown  in  Lethe's  gloomy  stream, 
The  memory  of  two  and  thirty  years, — 
That  vast  amount  of  precious  time  misspent, — 
But  conscience  whispers,  "  thus  it  may  not  be  !" 
Nay,  in  my  waking  hours,  and  when  in  sleep 
My  eye-lids  close  upon  life's  checquer'd  scene, 
Her  voice  is  heard  within  this  tortur'd  breast, 
Speaking  of  crime,  and  black  ingratitude. 

Oft  does  my  busy  memory  lead  me  back, 

Through  the  dark  vista  of  departed  years, 

Even  to  those  dim  hours  when  at  her  breast, 

A  fragile  babe,  my  mother  nourish'd  me, 

And  guarded  with  a  tender  parent's  care, 

The  wretch  whose  wilful  course,  her  doating  heart 

Hath  caus'd  to  bleed  with  grief  at  every  pore. 

How  many  days,  and  weary,  wakeful  nights, 
When  sickness  brooded  o'er  my  infant  frame, 
Did  that  fond  mother  watch  beside  my  couch, 
Soothing  my  peevish  temper  with  her  voice, 
Or  lulling  me  in  love's  embrace  to  sleep. 
Ah  !  little  thought  she  then,  that  adder  like, 
The  boy  she  lov'd  so  fondly  would  repay    - 
The  untiring  care  with  which  she  cherish'd  him, 
Stinging  her  to  her  very  heart  of  hearts. 
Nay,  look'd  she  forward  with  a  mother's  hope 
To  after  years,  when  the  enervate  babe 
Upon  her  knee  a  stalwart  man  should  grow, 
And  on  life's  troubled  ocean  launch  his  barque. 


BUDSANDFLOWERS.  121 

Yes,  in  the  dim  perspective  saw  she  him 

Contending  with  the  unpropitious  gales 

That  chafe  the  bosom  of  life's  stormy  flood, 

Now  rising  on  its  billows  to  the  skies, 

Again,  descending  to  its  lowest  deeps. 

But  grasping  with  a  firm  and  firmer  hand, 

As  troubles  thicken'd  round  his  gloomy  path, 

The  willing  helm,  and  boldly  keep  his  course    - 

Toward  that  shore  whereon  the  hallow'd  fane, 

Where  virtue,  clad  in  heavenly  vestments,  dwells, 

Rears  to  the  bending  sky  its  golden  dome. 

She  saw  him,  too,  when  age  had  thinn'd  her  locks, 
And  snatch'd  the  carmine  from  her  furrow'd  cheek, — 

As  pass'd  she  slowly  down  the  vale  of  years, — 

The  solace  of  those  weary  hours  which  shed 

Their  twilight  on  the  evening  of  life. 

This  was  a  bright  and  soothing  dream  to  her ; —  • 

And  in  such  dreams  do  mothers  oft  indulge, 

Clothing  the  future  in  its  brightest  garb, 

Thoughtless  of  all  the  dangers  that  surround 

The  rugged  pathways  of  this  impious  world  : 

Base  Dissipation's  poison  teeming  bowl, 

The  leman's  arts,  the  gamester's  honied  words  ; 

Alluring  wiles  to  lead  the  artless  youth 

From  virtue's  track  to  that  of  crime  and  woe, — 

But  'twas  a  dream  !  alas,  'twas  all  a  dream  ! 

With  time  her  fair  imaginings  have  flown ; 

Ah,  all  too  deeply  hath  she  been  deceived  ! 

And  he,  the  guardian  of  my  youth,  whose  locks 
Are  whiten'd  with  the  frosts  of  three-score  years, — 
Who  rear'd  me  nobly,  placed  me  where  the  sun 
Of  science  sheds  abroad  its  radiant  light, 
Bade  me  to  worship  honour,  and  t'  avoid 
The  snares  that  vice  had  thrown  around  the  world, 
And  fitted  me  to  shine  amid  the  throng 
Where  intellectual  worth  is  deem'd  a  gem, — 
How  have  his  hopes  been  blasted  by  the  wretch 
Who  dares  no  longer  call  him  father, — friend. 
16 


122  BUDS    AND    FLOWERS. 

Joy  mingles  with  my  sadness  for  a  time, 
While  turns  her  volume's  leaves  my  memory 
And  smiling  points  to  boyhood's  guileless  hours, 
When  fair-brow'd  happiness,  with  lavish  hand, 
Strew'd  life's  rude  highway  with  her  fairest  flowers, 
And  calm  Contentment  with  her  siren  tones 
Spoke  peace  unto  my  bosom,  then  unmarr'd 
By  dark  brow'd,  gnarled  Sorrow's  searing  hand. 
But  quickly  is  that  genial  ray  dispell'd  : — 
While,  onward  gazing,  memory  turns  to  scenes 
Made  up  of  folly,  crime,  and  blasting  shame, 
A  double  darkness  whelms  my  guilty  soul. 
'Tis  in  such  hours  as  this, — were  some  one  near 
Who  knew  to  teach  me  how  to  win  that  path 
Which,  when  this  frail  and  mortal  clay  returns 
Whence  first  it  came,  leads  to  eternal  bliss, — 
That  I  would  gladly  bow  this  rebel  neck, 
And  bend  this  stubborn  knee  before  that  throne 
Where  dread  Omnipotence,  a  triune  God, 
In  awful  splendor  sits,  and  sways  in  love 
The  destinies  of  thrice  ten  thousand  worlds. 

Oh,  how  I  long  to  feel  that  he  who  hung 
In  agonies  on  Calv'ry's  reeking  cross, — 
Who  died  a  felon's  death  that  such  as  I, 
Ransom'd  by  that  pure  blood,  so  nobly  shed, 
From  the  dark  thrall  of  sin,  might  join  and  kneel 
With  sainted  choirs  in  realms  beyond  the  sky, 
To  sing  the  glories  of  redeeming  grace, — 
Looks  down  in  pity  on  a  thing  so  vile. 

Come,  sweet  religion!  bland-eyed  goddess,  come  ! 
Cheer  this  sad  bosom  with  thy  loveliest  smiles  ; 
Inspire  me  with  love,  with  strength  divine, 
That  with  thee  I  may  tread  that  narrow  road 
Which  leads  to  endless  joy  in  realms  above. 
Pour  out  upon" this  all-polluted  heart 
The  purifying  streams  of  grace,  and  cleanse 
Its  inmost  recess  from  the  filth  of  sin. 
Be  with  me  ever ; — when  the  enemy 


BUDS    AND    FLOWERS.  123 

Of  this  immortal  soul  essays  to  sap 
The  firm  foundations  laid  by  thy  fair  hand, 
Which  cincture  and  defend  this  fragile  heart, 
Do  thou  endue  't  with  resolution  stern 
To  battle  bravely  with  its  daring  foe. 

*  *  *  *  # 

Father  of  mercies  !  Thou  Almighty  one, 

Who  know'st  my  ev'ry  thought,  and  word,  and  deed, 

Turn  thou  an  eye  of  favour  on  the  worm 

That  writhes  in  pain  beneath  thy  fearful  frown. 

O,  crush  him  not !  nor  cast  him  off  forev'r, 

Though  all  too  base  to  merit  thy  regard ; 

But,  for  the  sake  of  thy  dear  Son,  vouchsafe 

To  save  him  from  the  woes  of  lasting  death, 

And  make  him  meet  by  holiness  to  share, 

Beyond  the  grave,  that  heritage  of  bliss 

Reserv'd  for  those  who  do  thy  holy  will. 

Let  the  affliction  he  is  suffering  now, 

In  thy  good  time  be  to  him  sanctified ; 

And  if  it  be  thy  holy  will  that,  once  again, 

In  freedom  he  shall  mingle  with  the  world, 

Oh,  may  the  sense  of  thy  amazing  love 

To  one  so  undeserving,  stir  him  up 

To  live  to  thee  alone,  and  nought  to  know 

Beyond  his  Saviour,  and  Him  crucified. 

Grant,  thou  Omniscient,  grant  my  humble  prayer ; 

Be  merciful  to  me,  thy  sadly  erring  child, 

And  to  thy  name  be  all  the  praise.     AMEN.  '\ 


124  BUDS    AND    FLOWERS 


THE    RECLAIMED    INEBRIATE'S   SOIiELOQUY. 

&n   Ktreflulav   Do  em, 
DEDICATED   TO   MRS.   H.   F.  A  ********,   OF   P 


Oh,  Retrospection,  how  subduing  thou, 
To  him  on  whom  the  chains  of  infamy 

So  long  have  hung ; — upon  whose  care-worn  brow 
Are  trac'd  the  marks  of  Folly's  slavery  ! 

Of  what  I  am, — of  what  I  might  have  been, 

Do  thoughts,  at  times,  on  Mem'ry's  scutcheon  blaze 

Had  I  but  shunn'd  the  rugged  paths  of  sin, 
And,  led  by  virtue,  trodden  wisdom's  ways, 

I  might  have  soar'd  above  the  common  herd, 

Stood  where  the  statesman  and  the  hero  stand; — 

Crime  had  not  then  my  bosom's  pulses  stirr'd, — 
And,  'stead  of  serving,  I  had  had  command. 

Oh,  how  the  hearts  of  those  I  love  have  bled, 
Bleed  still,  for  me,  the  favour'd,  cherish'd  one  ; 

Much  rather  they  that  I  were  with  the  dead 

Than  thus,  crime-sullied,  worthless,  and  undone. 

I  was  their  pride  in  boyhood's  joyous  days, 

When  round  the  flow'ry  paths  of  life  was  strown 

The  brilliancy  of  virtue's  lustrous  rays, 
And  honour  in  my  bosom  held  her  throne. 

None  'mong  the  noble  or  the  lowly  bora, 

Had  friends  who  lov'd  them  with  a  warmer  love  : — 

Fall'n  as  I  am,  beneath  the  ban  of  scorn, 

They  love  me  still; — nought  can  that  love  remove. 


BUDS    AND    FLOWERS.  125 

Thus  is  it,  but  no  fault  remains  with  them, 

That  the  bright  jewel  Honour  has  not  now 
The  highest  place  in  life's  fair  diadem  ; 

That  shame  hath  plac'd  her  seal  upon  my  brow. 

From  childhood's  home  I  was  no  cast-a-way  ; 

Serene  and  cloudless  was  my  boyhood's  sky  ; 
Bright  were  the  hours  of  each  succeeding  day ; 

By  tears  of  sorrow  shone  undimm'd  my  eye. 

I  was  not  forc'd,  as  thousands  are,  to  rear 

Upon  the  world's  rude  sea,  my  swelling  sail?, 

And,  leaving  all  that  to  the  heart  is  dear, 
Dash  wildly  on  before  its  fickle  gales. 

Without  a  friendly  chart,  or  compass  true, 

Among  its  rocks  and  shoals  to  guide  my  way ; 

Nay,  all  its  fearful  dangers  were  in  view, 

Reefs,  breakers,  shoals,  and  rocks,  a  dark  array. 

I  knew  the  world,  with  all  its  myriad  wiles ; 

Its  cunning,  and  its  well  cloak'd  knavery, 
Its  sordid  meanness,  its  deceitful  smiles, 

Its  blasting  coldness  well  were  known  to  me. 

What  reck'd  that  knowledge  1  hath  not  misery 
Her  darkest  shades,  for  years,  around  me  thrown  ; 

And  sorrow's  pains,  in  all  their  poignancy, 

Poison'd  each  pulse  my  seared  heart  hath  known  1 

Ah  !  yes,  this  burning  heart  hath  been  the  mark 
At  which  her  keenest  arrows  have  been  hurl'd, 

Since,  at  its  portals,  crime,  with  visage  dark, 
And  foetid  breath,  her  sombre  flag  unfurl'd. 

My  bosom  fraught  with  bright  imaginings, 

I  launch'd  my  gilded  barque  upon  the  tide, 
And  spreading  to  the  breeze  her  snowy  wings, 

Laugh'd  care  to  scorn,  and  all  the  world  defied. 

Reckless  of  danger,  madly  on  I  sped ; 

Smil'd  at  the  clouds  that  gather'd  round  my  path, 
And  mock'd  the  thunders  rolling  o'er  my  head, 

'Till  burst  the  tempest  in  its  fearful  wrath. 


126  BUDS    AND    FLOWERS. 

Then  gazed  I  wildly  round  ; — in  tatters  torn 
My  sails  were  wafted  o'er  a  boiling  sea, 

And  soon  my  barque,  by  billows  rudely  borne, 
A  wreck,  was  thrown  upon  a  foaming  lee. 

'Twas  that  dread  coast,  Intemperance,  whose  shore 
With  wreck  of  barques  as  fair  as  was  mine  own, — 

Freighted  with  gems  which  they  shall  bear  no  more, — 
A  warning  to  the  young  and  gay,  lies  strown. 

From  that  dark  shore,  upon  the  world's  broad  sea, 
-Oft  have  I  turn'd  my  eyes,  and  seen  afar, 

Before  the  wind,  their  canvass  flowing  free, 

Those  who  had  Honour  made  their  guiding  star. 

Thence,  too,  have  T  the  friends  I  love  beheld, — 
The  mother,  sisters,  brothers,  and  the  sire, 

Whose  breasts  so  oft,  for  me,  with  grief  have  swell'd,— 
And,  gazing,  felt  a  hell  my  bosom  fire. 

And  there  hath  memory  often  turn'd  to  one, 
The  lov'd,  the  loving  one  of  happier  days  ; 

My  bosom's  idol,  and  the  glorious  sun 

That  o'er  youth's  bright  Elysium  shed  its  rays. 

Yes,  there  is  one,  on  this  green  earth, 

So  bright,  so  pure,  so  meek,  so  chaste, 
*  The  poet  may  not  tell  her  worth  : — 
A  lovelier  thing  was  never  trac'd 
By  limner  in  his  happiest  mood  ; 
A  form  so  faultless  never  grac'd 
The  dream  of  love  in  solitude. 

The  dew  of  morn,  the  flowret  fann'd 

By  Zeph'rus'  silken  wing, 
The  pearl  on  India's  coral  strand, 
Is  not  so  fair  a  thing. 

I  lov'd, — ah  !  it  were  vain  for  me 
To  say,  how  fondly,  doatingly, — 

I  lov'd  but  her  alone, 
When  the  first  ray  of  manhood  shed 
Its  brilliant  light  around  my  head, 

And  virtue  held  her  throne 


B  U  D  S    A  N  D    F  L  0  W  R  R  S  .        ^  1 27 

Within  this  bosom,  then  unfraught 
With  crime,  ere  an  unholy  thought, 
Or  impious  word,  or  deed  of  shame 
Had  thrown  a  blight  upon  my  name. 

I  lov'd  her ; — yes,  my  bosom  burn'd 

With  that  exalted,  hallow'd  fire 

Which  flames  unsullied  by  desire, — 
And  well  my  passion  was  returned. 
Yea,  from  her  lips  the  honied  words 

"  I  love  thee,"  many  a  time  and  oft 

Fell  on  my  ear,  in  tones  as  soft 
As  murmurings  of  unfledg'd  birds. 

And  in  her  eyes, — 
Bright  as  the  jewels  that  adorn 
The  forehead  of  an  April's  morn, 
Or  equalling  the  radiance  worn 

By  tropic  skies, — 
I've  read  the  thoughts  that  revelled 

Within  her  gloomy  breast, 
Where  love's  pure  sun  its  brilliance  shed, 

And  felt  supremely  blest ; 
For  in  those  eyes,  by  beauty  grac'd, 
The  index  of  her  soul  was  trac'd  ; 

A  fairer  could  not  be, 
Shone  she  the  star  of  womankind, 
Ruled  was  the  empire  of  her  mind 
By  spotless  purity. 

We  lov'd, — yes,  lov'd  we,  but  in  vain  ; 

We  parted,  and  the  golden  beam 
That  hallow'd  Love's  enamell'd  chain, 

Vanish'd  as  bubbles  on  a  stream  : — 

Ah !  thus  was  it  with  her ! 
Years  roll'd  away,  but  love  had  held 

Too  firm  a  set  within  my  breast, 

Like  rosy  beams  upon  the  west, 
Or  baseless  dreams  to  be  dispell'd, 
Or  summer's  gossamer. 


128  BUDS    AND    FLOWERS. 

In  eastern  wilds,  where  blood  was  rife, 
When  loudest  rose  the  battle's  strife, 

And  many  a  dying  groan 
Was  heard  above  the  startling  yell 
Of  savage  foes,  on  plain  and  dell, — 
From  hardy  men,  who  nobly  fell, — 
And  slaughter  wav'd  his  reeking  blade, 

And  hurl'd  his  crimson'd  spear, 
Amid  the  conflict,  undismay'd, 
Of  her  so  bright,  so  dear, 

So  lov'd,  I  thought  alone. 

• 

In  every  clime  the  glorious  sun 
Has  thrown  his  genial  rays  upon — 

On  India's  sands  of  gold ; 
»  In  isles  where  nature's  children  roam, 

TJntutor'd  o'er  their  forest  home, 
With  forms  of  peerless  mould  ; 
And  raven  locks,  whose  dazzling  gloss 
Would  shame  the  cocoon's  silken  floss  ; 
Steps  light  as  air,  and  lovely  eyes, 
As  bright  as  are  their  sunny  skies  ; 

Voices,  whose  tones  come  o'er  the  soul 

Soft  as  the  lullaby 
Sung  by  the  laughing  waves  that  roll 

Upon  a  tropic  sea ; 
Bosoms  that  know  no  thought  of  guile, 

No  pulse  of  hate,  no  art ; 
And  lips  which  speak,  in  every  smile 

The  sunshine  of  the  heart, — 
I've  wandered ;  but  the  liquid  eye, 
The  luscious  lip,  the  fitful  sigh, 
The  fairy  form,  the  glossy  hair, 
The  graceful  step,  the  forehead  fair, 
The  mellow  voice,  the  bosom's  swell, 
Could  not  a  thought  of  her  dispel. 

In  lands  where  despotism  reigns, — 

And  man,  beneath  oppression's  chains, 

Without  a  moment  all  his  own, 

Through  life's  dull  years  is  doom'd  to  groan  ; 


BUDS    AND    FLOWERS. 

Where  jewell'd  coronets  are  bound, 
Of  sceptr'd  kings  the  brows  around, 
And  serf  and  noble  bend  the  knee, 
And  bow  the  head  to  majesty, — 
I've  roam'd  'mid  scenes  of  revelry  ; 
But,  still,  the  loveliest,  fairest  she 

My  bosom  could  not  stir ; 
'Mid  dance,  and  song,  and  notes  of  glee, 
Claim'd  all  its  power  my  memory, 

And  fondly  turn'd  to  her. 
Aye,  Beauty  play'd  her  arts  in  vain, 

She  could  not  move  a  heart  like  mine, — 
So  warm,  so  true, — to  wear  her  chain, 

And  bow  a  vassal  at  her  shrine, 

Around  it  hung  a  spell 
Her  witching  manners  fail'd  to  break : — 
Man's  heart 's  a  castle  hard  to  take 
When  Love  stands  sentinel. 

'Tis  past !  Love's  dream  hath  vanished, 

She  lives  another's  now  ; 
The  sunlight  of  my  youth  hath  fled, 

A  shade  is  on  my  brow. 
The  baneful  deed,  the  poison'd  bowl, 
Have  thrown  a  cloud  around  my  soul, 
And  o'er  my  once  unsullied  name 
Hath  swept  the  withering  blast  of  shame  ; 
Life's  hour  of  happiness  hath  past, 
'Twas  all  too  bright,  too  fair  to  last. 

Oft  when  the  god  of  day  hath  set, 
And  night  hath  donn'd  her  coronet 

Of  jewels  rare, 

In  vision,  round  my  pillow  flits, 
Or  by  my  side  in  silence  sits 

A  being  fair. 

'Tis  she  I  lov'd, — I  love  e'en  now  ; 
The  brightness  of  her  hazle  eye, 
The  snowy  whiteness  of  her  brow, 
Her  soft  cheek's  roseate  dye,. 
17 


BUDS   AND    FLOWERS. 

The  matchless  lip,  the  bosom  fair, 
Yea,  every  feature  still  is  there, 
Clad  in  the  grace  'twas  wont  to  wear, 

When  strewn  with  flowers 
Were  all  the  paths  of  life,  and  joy, 
Bliss,  happiness,  without  alloy, 

Illum'n'd  its  bowers. 
She  speaks  not,  but  methinks  her  eye 

Is  humid  with  a  starting  tear, 
And  from  her  bosom  springs  a  sigh 

Of  grief,  at  thought  that  one  so  dear, 
As  once  I  was  to  her,  should  be 
Dark  Folly's  veriest  votary. 

That  o'er  the  verdure  of  my  soul 

Hath  pass'd  the  poison'd  tide, — 
The  blasting  siroc  of  the  bowl, — 

And  scath'd  its  jealous  pride. 
That,  when  the  light  of  life  hath  fled, 
And  I  shall  sleep  the  sleep  that  all, — 
The  rich,  the  poor,  the  great,  the  small, — 
Must  sleep,  the  place  where  lies  my  head 
Shall  not  be  hallow'd  with  a  tear 
From  friendship's  brilliant  eye, 
Nor  the  soft  breezes  murmuring  near 

Be  burthen'd  with  her  sigh. 
_     ,  5 

Or  that,  mayhap,  my  requiem  may  be 

The  billow's  music,  when,  in  wild  commotion, 
It  rolls  along  in  its  immensity, 

Upon  the  bosom  of  some  stormy  ocean. 

Yes,  oft  that  beauteous  vision  throws 
Its  influence  sweet  o'er  my  repose  ; 

For  years  that  phantasy 
Hath  hover'd  round  my  couch  each  night, 
And  fill'd  my  bosom  with  delight, 

Upon  the  land  and  sea. 
And,  oh  !  may  't  long  continue  thus  to  haunt 
My  humble  pillow  ; — while  it  hovers  there, 
That  incubus  with  features  grim  and  gaunt, — - 


BUDS    AND    FLOWERS.  131 

Hope's  sternest  enemy,  fell,  black  despair, — 
Clad  in  her  wildest  terrors,  will  not  dare 
Her  bloody  standard  in  my  breast  to  plant.   • 

Thinks  she  of  me  ?    Has  e'en  one  thought 

Of  him  she  lov'd  in  happier  days, — 

When  girlhood's  planet  threw  its  rays 

Of  mellow  radiance  round  her  life, 

And  every  hour  with  joy  was  rife, — 
And  days  by  gone,  with  pain  unfraught, — 

Had  place  in  her  young  breast? 
Can  it  be  so  ?  oh,  did  I  dare 
To  hold  the  blissful  thought,  that  there 
The  scroll  of  memory  still  retain'd 
A  name  with  guilt  so  deeply  stain'd, 
I  were  not  all  unblest. 

May't  never  be  that  harrowing  care 

Shall  throw  the  shadow  of  her  wing 

Around  the  bosom  of  a  thing 
So  bright,  so  ravishingly  fair. 

Nay,  may  that  bosom  never  know 

Nor  pang  of  pain,  nor  pulse  of  woe ; 
And  when  life's  stream  hath  ceas'd  to  roll 

Its  crimson  current  through  each  vein, 

May,  upward  from  this  sphere  of  pain, 
Her  innocent,  her  spotless  soul 

On  angels'  wings  be  borne  away, 

To  regions  of  eternal  day, 
Where  a  seraphic  choir, — 

In  praises  to  the  King  of  kings, — 

Strike  witching  music  from  the  strings 
Of  many  a  golden  lyre. 

This  must,  O,  yes,  this  can't  but  be 

That  pure  one's  happier  destiny, 
While  I,  mayhap,  for  years, — 

Woe-worn,  despairing,  and  alone, 

Joy  to  rny  bosom  all  unknown, — 
May  tread  this  vale  of  tears. 


132  BUDS      AND     FLOWERS. 

Perchance  't  may  be  my  lot  of  gloom, 

Forsaken  in  some  far  off  land  to  die, 
And  be,  by  strangers  hurried  to  the  tomb, 

Without  one  friend  to  close  my  glazing  eye. 
Or,  on  some  wild  and  dreary  region  thrown, — 

My  comrades  having  met  a  happier  death 
Beneath  the  wave, — in  misery,  and  alone, 

'T  may  be  my  hapless  fate  to  yield  my  breath. 

To  die,  were  nothing  of  itself  to  me  : 

The  hour  of  dissolution  may  be  fraught 
With  pain,  in  all  its  torturing  poignancy, 

But  oh  !  the  dark,  the  fearful  searing  thought 
Of  that  dread  future,  that  eternity 

Which  must  succeed ! 

There  glows  the  shaft,  there  lies  the  piercing  smart, 
There  centres  that  which  poisins  all  the  heart, 
And  bids  it  bleed. 

That  thought, — when  round  the  sinner's  dying  bed 
The  grizzly  phantom  waits  to  hurl  his  dart, 

And  every  hope  of  lingering  here  hath  fled, — 
That  thought  is  hyssop  to  his  burning  heart ; 

And  fiercely  there, 

Revels  in  all  her  madness,  rob'd  in  gloom, — 
While  sinks  her  pallid  victim  to  the  tomb, — 
Dark  brow'd  despair. 

Is  't  thus  to  be  ?  Forbid  it,  Thou  whose  throne 
Is  pillar'd  on  the  arch  of  yon  blue  heaven  ! 
Forbid  it,  Thou,  by  whom,  and  whom  alone, 

The  vilest  worm  on  earth  may  be  forgiven  ' 
Forbid  it,  thou  Omnific,  for  the  sake 

Of  Him  who  died  on  Calvary ! 
Forbid  it,  Thou  who  'st  said,  "  I  will  not  break 

The  bruised  reed  !" — Forbid  that  thus  't  should  be  ! 
And  may  my  future  hours  be  full  of  praise 

For  the  unnumber'd  blessings  thou  hast  strown 
Around  my  life,  and  may  my  humble  lays 

Be  tuned  in  praise  of  thy  lov'd  name  alone. 


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